
congress 




































THE LADY OF THE TOWER 

AND OTHER STORIES 


THE 

LADY OF THE TOWER 

AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 


George Barton 
Peter K. Guilday 
Marion Ames Taggart 
Maud Regan 
Mary E. Mannix 
Sylyestre Perry 
Florence Gilmore 


Jerome Harte 
Anna Blanche McGill 
Magdalen Rock 
Eileen Farley 
Katharine Jenkins 
May Finnegan 
Karl Klaxton 


Ursula Margaret Trainor 


NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PRINTER* TO THE 1 PUBLISHERS OP 

HOLY APOSTOLIC SEB | BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 

1909 


Copyright, 1909, by Benziger Brothers. 




Two Copies Received 

APR 28 1808 








CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


The Lady of the Tower. By George Barton. 7 

Greater Love than This. By Peter K. Guilday.. 21 

A Woman’s Way. By Marion Ames Taggart. 31 

Major Bobby, Peacemaker. By Marion Ames 

Taggart.». 41 

We Two and Miss Pamelia. By Maud Regan_ 53 

The Bells of Santa Marta. By Mary E. 

Mannix.. 73 

The Picture in the Fire. By Jerome Harte. 85 

At Summer’s Close. By Anna Blanche McGill_ 99 

The Lady of the Roses. By Maud Regan. 121 

Stephen Oxenham’s Mistake. By Magdalen 

Rock. 141 

The Light Fantastic. By Marion Ames Taggart 153 

St. Patrick and the Pink Gown. By Eileen 

Farley. 167 

What Influenced Jim. By Katharine Jenkins.... 181 

The Heir. By Magdalen Rock. 191 

The War of the Roses. By Marion Ames 

Taggart. 201 












vi 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


At the Tolling of the Angelus. By Sylvestre 

Perry. 213 

“The Last Shall Be First.” By May Finnegan. 223 
After Twenty-Five Years. By Florence Gilmore 241 
The Agnosticism of Dolly Rosa. By Karl Klax- 

ton... 251 

“Just a Story.” By Ursula Margaret Trainor.281 





The Lady of the Tower 

BY GEORGE BARTON 

“John, my boy,” said Michael Hall pleadingly, 
to his son and heir, “it is the ambition of my 
life to have you marry Peter Hanley’s daughter.” 

“Why, father,” protested the son, “it’s 
absurd to ask me to promise to marry a girl I’ve 
never met.” 

“Oh, I don’t mean that precisely,” explained 
the elder man. “But I want you to meet, and 
if you prove congenial, to marry afterwards. 
Peter Hanley and I worked side by side. We 
fought our way from poverty to wealth together. 
We are growing old, and it would be consoling to 
know that the love we bore each other had been 
transmitted to our children.” 

“But I didn’t know Hanley had any children.” 

“ This is his step-child—but he loves her as his 
own flesh and blood.” 

There was a long silence between the two men. 
Finally the father spoke: 

“Will you promise to go with me to meet the 
girl?” 


7 


8 THE LADY OF THE TOWER 

“ Father, I can’t—I really can’t in all con¬ 
science. My one thought has been obedience to 
you; but this request is too much.” 

A look of pain crossed the father’s face. 

“Maybe you will change your mind later/’ 
he suggested. 

“I don’t see how that is possible.” 

“Well, don’t act hastily; take time to consider 
it.” 

“For your sake,” replied John reluctantly, 
“I’ll do so.” 

“Now,” said the father, laying his hand 
affectionately on the boy’s shoulder, “I want 
you to come to me in a month’s time and say, 
* Father, I’m going to do as you wish.’ ” 

The following morning John Hall started out 
on a long-planned trip to the Pacific Coast. 
It was a special excursion, with ten cars filled 
with expectant tourists. The young man was 
acquainted with a few of the travelers, but the 
larger number were strangers to him. Many of 
them, in fact, did not come in contact with one 
another during the entire journey. 

It was about the fifth day that the incident 
occurred. It was while visiting the ruins of the 
old Spanish mission of San Juan Capistrano. 


GEORGE BARTON 


9 


He had become separated from the rest of the 
tourists. The conductor was fearful that some 
of the ladies in the party might get into the 
dangerous part of the ruins, and he asked John 
Hall to warn them of their peril. John readily 
agreed, and went on his way. A sharp turn in 
the road brought him suddenly in view of the 
old mission belfry. It stood clearly outlined, 
naked against the background of a grayish sky. 
It was grandly impressive; a noble, four-sided 
tower of granite, surmounted by a symmetri¬ 
cally-proportioned dome, majestic even in its 
crumbling old age. Directly beneath the dome, 
and in front of the tower, was a large, square 
window, the sides of which were mildewed and 
mossed with age. It was in the dusk of evening, 
and the details of the picture dawned upon him by 
degrees. 

He looked again, and gave a start of surprise 
and delight. Gazing out of the window of the 
tower, and silhouetted against the dark back¬ 
ground of this ancient ruin, was the face of a 
beautiful young girl. After the long ride in the 
dusty cars the unexpected sight was a treat 
for jaded eyes. She came upon him like a 
breath of pure air from these sun-swept hills. 


10 


THE LADY OF THE TOWER 


He stood motionless, fearing to move lest this 
refreshing, fragrant vision might prove to be an 
illusion of his overwrought imagination. But 
it was real—there could be no doubt about it— 
for a little bird, with sublime confidence, lighted 
on her hand and remained there, receiving her 
gentle caresses. The other hand rested against 
a cheek of exquisite whiteness. Unconsciously 
this portrait of living, pulsating, beautiful young 
life formed a striking contrast with the age- 
begrimed and ivy-clad ruins of the old belfry. 

He entered the building, groping his way 
cautiously through piles of rustling dead leaves. 
The interior was like a tomb. Now and then the 
hoot of an owl disturbed the grave-like silence. 
It was dark, and his outstretched hands came in 
contact with a mass of cobwebs. But the un¬ 
pleasantness of the encounter did not deter him 
from his quest. The stillness did not oppress 
him; rather he was filled with a sense of rever¬ 
ential awe. For those few moments he felt 
himself a part of the dead and forgotten past. 
The pavements of the edifice were once again 
peopled with the kneeling throng; the sound of 
the great organ swelled through the transepts 
where the bats fought for a resting-place; the 


GEORGE BARTON 


11 


faint, fragrant odor of the incense floating up 
amidst the rows of sculptured angels and saints 
took the place of the mildewed mustiness that 
had first assailed his nostrils; myriads of waxen 
tapers threw their soft glow over the stark 
interior; acolytes marched in procession along 
the vacant aisles, and the solemn sound of the 
muffled bells reverberated through the empty 
church. 

A sudden gust of wind blew a door shut with a 
bang, and the illusion magically disappeared. 
The reality was before him—the cold, naked, 
deserted old mission house. A tiny thread of 
light coming from an opening near a stairway 
served as a guide to the groping man. The 
doorway, quaintly carved, was so low that Hall 
had to bend in order to admit his body. From 
thence upward the journey was clear and unob¬ 
structed. The walls on the tower floor were so 
decrepit that they crumbled beneath his touch. 
Truly the ancient structure which had so well 
served its day and generation was now in the very 
throes of death. 

Suddenly he confronted the young woman he 
had seen beneath the belfry dome. 

“The Lady of the Tower!” he exclaimed, 


12 THE LADY OF THE TOWER 

lifting his hat and involuntarily voicing his 
thoughts. 

She appeared confused at this strange greeting, 
and gazed at him in silence. 

A sense of apprehension for her personal 
safety overcame him. 

“It is very dangerous here!” he cried. “You 
should not have ventured so far.” 

The large, liquid eyes looked into his with an 
expression of childlike innocence. 

“I am very sorry,” she said, and the contrition 
in her tones was as engaging as the beauty of her 
face. “But I did not know it was forbidden.” 

Instantly he was filled with remorse at having 
chided such a sweet creature—even though it 
had been ever so mildly. He hastened to 
reassure her. 

“ Oh, it’s not forbidden—at least not to you.” 

The exception made so gracefully caused her 
to look at him quickly and searchingly. Once 
again he fell under the spell of those eyes, so 
tender yet so bright and sparkling. She was 
neatly dressed—and becomingly, too. Her man¬ 
ner and the few words she had spoken made it 
evident that she was a person of culture and 
refinement. She was proud without being haugh- 


GEORGE BARTON 


13 


ty, and self-respecting without the shallowness 
of vanity. All of these things he read in the 
young woman before him. 

It was plain to the most careless observer that 
she returned the interest he felt in her. She 
looked at him curiously. What she beheld was a 
person tall, erect, clear-eyed and clear-skinned; 
a man with broad shoulders and supple limbs, 
who seemed to relish the very air he breathed, 
whose smile was engaging, and whose healthful 
laugh was contagious; one, in fact, who com¬ 
bined the humility of a courtier with the easy 
self-assurance of a gentleman. 

“It is growing late,” he remarked after a long 
silence. “Don’t you think we had better go 
down?” 

She glanced at a little chatelaine watch and 
uttered an exclamation of dismay. 

“ Yes, I must go at once.” 

Together they made their way down the 
spiral staircase, through the deserted cloisters 
and out again under the balmy skies of Southern 
California. At the foot of the old ruin, beside a 
clump of azaleas, they both paused. 

“Thank you for your courtesy,” she said, and 
her beautiful eyes lighted up as she spoke. “I 


14 


THE LADY OF THE TOWER 


came here with a party of friends; we became 
separated; I must hasten to re-join them.” 

“May I have the pleasure of escorting you to 
your friends?” As he spoke he greedily de¬ 
voured the beauty of this girl who had been 
wafted into his life as if from the tip of some 
good fairy’s wand. 

“ But the time—have you the time?” a question 
prompted by the manner in which he had slyly 
looked at the face of his watch. 

“I’ll take the time,” he answered gallantly; 
emboldened also by the gracious smile with which 
she had accompanied her query. 

So they walked side by side through the 
gardens of the old mission grounds out toward 
the main road. Time, which was so relentlessly 
destroying the ancient edifice they had just 
quitted, could boast of no conquests over Mother 
Earth. The country-side was redolent with the 
perfume of many flowers. Little plants, topped 
with chalice-shaped buds, sweet-scented peonies 
and great sunflowers with their large, disk-like 
heads splashed with yellow, crowded the fields 
on both sides of the saunterers. Somehow they 
seemed like mute attendants at the shrine of 
love. 


GEORGE BARTON 


15 


“Might I know the name of the gentleman to 
whom I am indebted ?” she asked, with a trace 
of shyness in her tones. 

“Certainly,” he replied with a laugh. “It’s 
not a very heroic name. Simply plain John 
Hall.” 

She gave a start of surprise, but quickly 
recovered herself. She probably had her own 
notions regarding the unheroic aspect of the 
name, but said nothing. 

“And you,” he continued, “you are—” 

“Elsie,” she replied, unthinkingly. 

“Elsie!” in some astonishment. 

“Elsie Barlow,” she hastened to complete the 
name with a very becoming blush. 

They were coming close to the main highway 
now, and he was mentally bemoaning the fact 
that they would have to part. While he was 
wondering what he could say in the brief time 
left to them, she spoke. 

“What made you address me as the Lady of 
the Tower?” 

He hesitated, hunting for an appropriate 
reply. It came to him. 

“Why, I had to address you by some title, 
and that seemed most fitting.” 


16 


THE LADY OF THE TOWER 


She laughed, with exuberant frankness. 

“Pretty good, don’t you think, for plain 
John Hall?” 

He thought so, too, but did not put his con¬ 
viction into words. Instead he joined in her 
laugh. 

They were now in full view of the highway. 
Several carriages were standing there. The 
first two were occupied. Two vacant places 
remained behind the last team. 

“I leave you here,” she said half-sadly. 

He looked at her in unmistakable aston¬ 
ishment. 

“Are you with this party?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And traveling on the California Limited ?” 

“Yes. Is there anything surprising in that?” 

“Only one thing.” 

“What is it?” 

“Simply that I am a passenger on the same 
train.” 

It was her turn to be astonished. The situa¬ 
tion was so ludicrous that they both burst into a 
laugh. 

“I was in the smoker nearly all the way out,” 
he said feebly. 


GEORGE BARTON 


17 


“And I was in the private Pullman/’ she 
confessed. 

Thus they met. They did not travel in sepa¬ 
rate cars on the remainder of the trip. He 
sat by her side, gazing into her lustrous eyes. 

Freshly graduated from a convent school in 
California, she was free from the conventionalities 
of society and unspoiled by contact with the 
world. Hall having admired her at first sight, 
found this feeling ripening, day by day, into a 
sentiment which the poets—and some prosy 
folks, too—call love. 

He would have been puzzled to have placed his 
thoughts in black and white. All he knew was 
that he had found the dainty little girl very 
necessary to his happiness, and he was filled with 
a haunting fear that he might lose her. She 
made some commonplace remark about the 
beauty of the scenery which whizzed by with 
incredible swiftness, but he neither heard nor 
heeded it. He desired, metaphorically speaking, 
to throw himself and his fortune at her feet, but 
was fearful of the result. Suppose she should 
reject him? The disappointment would be 
intense. Suppose she should laugh at him? 
The mortification of that would be beyond 


18 


THE LADY OF THE TOWER 


endurance. So he sat there and gazed at her in 
a dull, blank, expressionless way. She glanced 
back at him with the frankness of friendship. 

He began the conversation, but rather lamely. 

“Do—do you believe that if a man thinks an 
awful lot of a girl he should tell her about it?” 

The telltale blush began to appear about the 
little pink-tinted ears; but by a powerful effort 
of the will she succeeded in keeping it from 
spreading over her face. 

“What an extraordinary question!” she said in 
tones that were intended to be coldly formal. 
“ I should imagine that any one—any girl 
would be glad to know that she had the—the— 
good opinion of a gentleman.” 

“Not good opinion—love,” he persisted. 

“But you didn’t say so,” she said teasingly. 

“I meant it,” he answered doggedly. 

She was silent; gazed out of the car window 
with pretended interest, on the miles and miles 
of well-tilled farmlands they were passing. 

“Did you hear me?” he demanded. 

She started, half-alarmed at the abruptness of 
his question. 

“ Yes—but—but—why can not the man answer 
the question for himself?” 


OEORGE BARTON 


19 


“He is afraid/’ said Hall, speaking^ swiftly 
and passionately. “ He fears that he may 
have a rival in her affections and he can not bear 
the thought of learning such a thing. He—” 

“Oh, Mr. Hall,” she said pleadingly, “don’t 
become sentimental.” 

“But,” he said recklessly, “if such a man 
declared his love for you what should you say?” 

“I should tell him to see my father,” she 
replied decidedly. 

“And who is your father?” he asked soberly. 

“Peter Hanley.” 

Hall’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. 

“But your name is Barlow.” 

“Very true; but I am his step-daughter.” 

The world was turned upside down for John 
Hall. He never knew how he finished the 
journey; but a month after the time he left 
home—to the day—he stood before his father. 

“ You wanted me to marry Peter Hanley’s 
daughter?” 

“I did,” was the eager response. 

“Well, father, I’m going to do as you wish.” 

And he did. 



Greater Love Than This 


BY PETER K. GUILDAY 

“So it's my turn to-night, is it?” asked Paul 
Austin, as we sat down together in the Recreation 
Hall to listen to the fifth and last story of our 
little circle. 

Paul was the youngest of the five of us, and of 
that fair, intellectual type of student that one 
loves to imagine St. Aloysius must have been. 
His frail body, his highly gifted poetical tempera¬ 
ment, his delicate features, and above all the 
deep, pure depth of his blue eyes, gave you the 
impression of something heavenly and unreal. 

Four of us had told our stories on the four 
preceding Saturday nights of November and 
December, and all were of the thrilling ghost-like 
variety that we loved to hear as children, with 
many exciting events scattered through them. 
You must know that Saturday was always a 
peculiar day at the Seminary; in some strange 
manner it threw around itself a cloak of added 

holiness, for “ from the morning watch even until 
21 


22 


GREATER LOVE THAN THIS 


night ” we were busy silently and effectively 
hammering away at our “consciences”—or, as 
Father Waldron would say, “scrubbing away at 
God’s mirrors”—in preparation for confession. 
This evening was different from all the other 
evenings of the week. No one talked loud along 
the walks outside, and even the tread of the 
many feet up and down the long porches seemed 
subdued. A hush of expectancy and of awe 
for the Guest of the morrow-morn fell over us, 
so that, practically speaking, it was a real vigil— 
an anticipation of the quietness and the soberness 
of the Sunday. 

During the autumn-tide our love for the woods, 
the brooks, and the stretches of field beyond 
them kept us out of doors most of the time; 
but when the winter nights came, and the chilly, 
piercing sleet cut through the trees and jingled 
against the frozen boughs, when all nature seemed 
desolate and dead to love, then the sight of the 
bright lights within, and the knowledge that all 
was snug and warm behind the frosted window- 
panes of the spacious Recreation Hall, drew us 
together a little closer, and as the crust of petty 
prejudice and old-mannishness loosened in the 
general, more homelike feeling pervading the 


PETER K. GUILD AY 


23 


Seminary, we became happier, gentler, brighter, 
cheerier, and more brotherly. 

How the five of us ever came together on a 
Saturday night toward the middle of November 
and started our little series of tales, it would be 
difficult to say; but there was more than a mere 
agreement of tastes and pursuits in that acci¬ 
dental meeting, and as the sequel of Paul Austin’s 
sad story shows, there was a divine Providence 
running through it all—an event which was to 
mold us into better Seminarians, and, therefore, 
more efficient priests. But Paul is beginning his 
story. 

***** 

“ The story I shall tell you to-night is one that 
has occupied many of my sleeping and waking 
hours since the scholastic year began. It 
happened during the summer holidays just past 
in my own city. In the evenings of the long 
vacation I was accustomed to leave home about 
five o’clock in order to make a little visit to the 
Blessed Sacrament. St. Mary’s church is not 
generally visited at this time of the day, but to 
have perfect quiet I used to go into an unused 
confessional near Our Lady’s altar. The sexton 
would come around toward six o’clock to lock up. 


24 


GREATER LOVE THAN THIS 


but I always managed to slip out of the old 
confessional before he could notice me. 

“ One day, after I had taken a longer walk than 
usual, I reached St. Mary's somewhat fatigued, 
and had not hidden myself long in my favorite 
place before I was sound asleep. When I awoke, 
it was to see the church filled with the lurid 
glare of a sudden flash of lightning and then in an 
instant to find myself in complete darkness. 

“I need not tell you that I was frightened; for 
the roaring of the thunder and the blinding 
flashes of lightning as they threw into horrible 
and fantastic shapes the statues of the saints 
and the pillars of the church, fairly terrorized me. 
The beating of the rain against the window- 
panes high over my head, and the moaning of the 
wind through the eaves, made me imagine that I 
heard a multitude of voices talking, and the 
coming and going of the lightning gave life to the 
statues, so that they seemed to be moving toward 
me. 

“A cold perspiration broke out all over me 
and my fright increased to the horrors of a 
nightmare. Terror-stricken, I made up my 
mind to try to get out by way of the sacristy, 
but just as I reached the door it opened of itself. 


PETER K. GUILD AY 


25 


and a tall, emaciated priest came out with a 
taper in his hands. Not paying the least atten¬ 
tion to me—indeed he seemed to pass through 
me—he advanced toward the Blessed Virgin’s 
altar and lighted the candles as if preparing for 
Mass. After arranging the Missal, he came back 
and, passing me unnoticed, returned into the 
sacristy. In a few minutes he reappeared, 
fully vested for Mass; going to the altar, he 
ascended the steps, put the chalice on the altar- 
table, bowed a few minutes in prayer, then 
descended, genuflected, and blessed himself, 
saying the first words of the Mass: Introibo ad 
altare Dei : here he paused a while, but began 
again in a more sepulchral tone, Introibo ad 
altare Dei, and then crying out in anguish, he 
took the chalice, genuflected, and disappeared 
through the sacristy, moaning the words of the 
Miserere. 

“Too surprised to speak, for my fright had 
completely mastered me, he was gone before I 
could stop him. Then all was silence. 

“ I tried the doors and windows of the sacristy, 
but all were firmly locked and barred. Who was 
he, and how was he able to enter the church? 
I kept repeating to myself. His extreme emacia- 


26 


GREATER LOVE THAN THIS 


tion, the indefinable expression about his eyes, 
the livid pallor of his face, the profound suffering 
which showed itself in his features, the smothered 
sobs of the Miserere which escaped his lips, 
all these had the air of the supernatural. One 
burning thought gave me the greatest pain and 
regret, as I knelt there in the darkness before 
the main altar, and that was that I had not gone 
forward to the foot of the altar to serve this 
mysterious midnight Mass.” 

* * * * * 

Here Charles Shanahan, whom I noticed 
trembling through the whole of Austin's story, 
left his place and went out into the air. After¬ 
wards I learned that some one had seen his 
deceased uncle, a priest, in the church of which 
he was pastor, years after his death. 

***** 
“Daylight soon came,” Paul continued, not 
noticing Shanahan's absence, “and unperceived 
I left the church, shortly after the sexton had 
opened the doors. 

“When I arrived home, I found my parents 
nearly heartbroken, and, though I said nothing 
about the priest, my story of being unfortunately 
locked in St. Mary's soon reassured them. I 


PETER K. GUILD AY 


27 


returned in time to hear Mass, and spent a few 
minutes in prayer asking the Holy Ghost to 
direct me. The assistant pastor, Father Drane, 
who, as you know, was very friendly to me while 
he was a student here in the Seminary, must 
have seen some trace of the awful experience of 
the night before in my face; for, instead of going 
to the rectory, as was his custom, he came into the 
seat, and knelt alongside of me, waiting till I had 
finished my prayers. 

11 It did not take much persuasion to tell him 
the whole story. At first he seemed to think I 
had been merely dreaming, and that what I had 
seen was the result of my unfortunate predica¬ 
ment during the night; but, finally, he saw that 
there was more than a vision in what I told him, 
and he counselled me to remain again in the 
church that night, and if the priest should appear 
to go forward and serve his Mass. 

“I took a candle with me and the Imitation 
to help pass the hours by reading; as midnight 
approached, I extinguished the candle, and 
prepared myself—this time without the least 
fear—for whatever was to happen. I could hear 
the town-clock tolling out the twelve strokes of 
midnight, and as the sound of the last stroke 


28 


GREATER LOVE THAN THIS 


died away, the mysterious priest again appeared 
with a lighted taper, and proceeded to arrange 
the altar for Mass as he had done the night 
previous. Reentering the sacristy, he vested 
himself, and came toward the altar with the 
chalice in his hands. When he had descended 
and was blessing himself, I stole quietly to his 
side and knelt down at the foot of the altar. 

“ Introibo ad altare Dei , came the words, in the 
same sepulchral tone. 

“Instantly I answered: Ad Deum qui Icetificat 
juventutem meam. 

“The priest trembled in every limb, and as I 
looked up for him to go on, an ineffable joy 
suffused his face, and in a voice quivering with 
emotion he went on with the prayers. When 
the Mass was finished—I never served a more 
holy Mass in my life—I took the book, as we do 
here in the Seminary, and preceded him w into 
the sacristy. After he had divested himself, 
he turned to me and said—” 

Paul, who had been trembling with excitement 
as he told his remarkable story, here broke down 
and wept like a child. “The rest is too sad— 
I don’t think I can tell it.” Crawford and I tried 
to console him, assuring him we did not want to 


PETER K. GUILD AY 


29 


hear any more of the story; but Austin had 
quickly composed himself and insisted on finish¬ 
ing it. 

“ The priest put his two hands on my shoulders, 
and said solemnly: * Young man, it was God who 
sent you to this church in order to end my 
sufferings. For twenty long years I have come 
back here night after night in order to celebrate 
a Mass for the Dead that I had missed during my 
life through negligence. Divine justice has 
punished me for that sin of neglect, and the 
gates of heaven have been closed against me 
until the day when my debt would be paid. I 
have come here every night to offer the Holy 
Sacrifice, and I have not been permitted to do so, 
because there was no one to answer the prayers, 
and God had forbidden me to say them myself. 
Heaven is now open to me—I see the shining 
throne of God off in the glorious distance—this 
service you have done for me must not go without 
a reward. Your faith is strong, your soul as 
pure as the angels. This life is a hard bondage— 
before Christmas Day you will be delivered from 
it—I myself will come to take you home to God. 
God bless you, now go in peace.' ” 


30 GREATER LOVE THAN THIS 

The bell for night prayers rang: the rule of 
silence forbade us to say a single word. 

Three days later, while we were preparing for 
the Christmas holidays, Paul was on a bed of 
pain in the infirmary of the Seminary. The 
four of us were around him; he had asked for us, 
for he was dying. We watched at his bedside 
till late in the night; and as midnight approached, 
an air of heavenly happiness seemed to cover his 
figure, and with a look of joy on his face, he 
expired. At the same moment a flood of celestial 
light filled the room, and we four silent watchers 
saw his soul go to join the angels of God —and 
there was another soul at his side. 


A Woman’s Way 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART 

With considerable difficulty Lewis I vers per¬ 
suaded Annie Dickson to marry him. If she 
had loved him less he never would have suc¬ 
ceeded. Nor does the fact that she loved him 
dearly prove that his pleading was unnecessary. 
There is a type of woman who sets out in life 
with her mind made up to marriage in the 
abstract, marriage to almost any one rather 
than to no one. There is another type whose 
love annihilates doubt and hesitation, who flies 
to her lover when he appears like the approved 
heroine in the last chapter. But there is a third 
type of which the romancers are less cognizant— 
the woman who has no desire whatever to marry, 
and in whom even strong affection does not 
overcome her repugnance to merging her identity 
in one whom she instinctively feels will be her 
master as well as her lover. 

Of the last named was Annie, not from inde¬ 
pendence nor strong-mindedness, for she was 
31 


32 


A WOMAN'S WAY 


the least self-assertive of beings, but because she 
was thus by nature bent. Lew Ivers—all his 
acquaintances called him Lew—had all the traits 
that Annie lacked. He was brown-eyed; her 
eyes were dark blue, as soft as his were flashing. 
He was full of talk and laughter; she was quiet, 
and laughed inwardly more often than audibly. 
He made acquaintances, whom he called friends, 
wherever he went; she cared for but few, and 
rarely added a new friend to the old ones, but 
these few were dear to her, as she to them, 
beyond the need of naming. 

So all the traits that Annie lacked, Lew had. 
But when one went to turn the statement about, 
Lew came out less well, for not all the virtues 
that Annie had, Lew possessed. In the matter 
of unselfishness, for instance, in a capacity for 
entire devotion, in sweetness of temper and in 
patience Annie was rich, while Lew—well, Lew 
rarely thought of other people except as access¬ 
ories, and he was far too jovial abroad to be 
always amiable at home, while patience is less a 
virtue in a woman than it is her business. 

“And so they were married,” as the story¬ 
books say, ending at the beginning. 

As if to atone for her reluctance to be a wife, 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


33 


Annie became a rapturously happy one. She 
threw all her singleness of heart, all her strength 
of love and devotion, into the scale to weight 
it on the affirmative side of the question as to 
whether marriage is a success, and marriage, plus 
these qualities in the bride, could not be a 
failure. Lew was so pleasant, so droll, so easy¬ 
going, that housekeeping was a pastime, the 
most difficult of its tasks light—at first. 

Annie surprised herself by learning to laugh 
at nothing, even by making her own jests as she 
made her own bread, by singing as she ran out 
and in and up and down. She had been rather 
a demure little creature, but she was expanding 
into liveliness under the inspiration of Lew’s 
merriment. Content had taught her heretofore, 
now active happiness was arousing her into 
activity of wit as well as hands. 

The first quarter of a year went thus winged 
like Mercury who brings the messages of the 
gods. Then the days moved slower; Annie 
wondered if the domestic cares which had been 
so easy could be tiring her. 

Lew began to go out more—without her, but 
Annie persuaded herself that she was glad that 
he should enjoy himself—and she was so happily 


34 


A WOMAN'S WAY 


kept at home! She could not quite persuade 
herself that she liked to have him find fault 
with small things when he was with her, and 
this he did. However, she accomplished the 
next best delusion—she persuaded herself that 
she was invariably in the wrong, which comforts 
a truly womanly woman. 

The baby that was born, died. Lew was very 
kind, then. He was attentive to the poor little 
mother, who barely lived herself, and he told her 
not to grieve; that if the baby had lived it 
would have come discordantly into their duet of 
happiness. 

“ Ah, you don’t mean that, dear! It is good of 
you, but you don’t mean it. I grieve for your 
bitter disappointment in the loss of your son. 
I am more sorry for you than for myself, poor 
Lew!” Annie cried. 

“You needn’t be, then!” Lew declared fer¬ 
vently. “I was ready enough to accept the 
baby, but I am just as ready to go on without 
one. Truly, Annie, I can’t mourn deeply for a 
young person whom I did not know. Don’t 
you fret about me, little girl! Now when I 
feared you were going—that was different!” 

Annie tried to smile, but it was a wan failure. 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


35 


He was good to try to comfort her, but this was 
not the way to do it. Rather the heartache for 
him than to know he was outside her grief. 
For Lew prided himself on his candor, and his 
words rang sincerely. They fell on her empty, 
disappointed heart almost as if some one had 
struck a blow at the tiny face which had slipped 
away from her when she had so long counted on 
pressing it to that empty heart. 

Then she instantly reproached herself. A 
mother was a mother from the first hour’s 
thought of the child—nay, from her childhood, 
when she held her dolls and planned the names 
of her future children. But a man was different. 
Paternity had to be practiced to be perfected. 
Men were not usually interested profoundly in 
their offspring until their intelligence dawned; 
even Annie had discovered that, most of all 
things, the average man likes to be entertained. 
So she tried to rest on Lew’s expression of the 
supreme importance of her own life, and, as the 
Mother of mothers hid in her heart the words of 
her Son, this little mother hid in her heart her 
longing for the son who would never speak to her. 

It was after this, long enough for Annie to 
seem herself again, while she felt conscious of 


36 


A WOMAN’S WAY 


being altogether another and less strong self, 
that Lew fell into the habit of constant fault¬ 
finding. 

“Did you move that chair? Well, I wanted it 
there. It is maddening never to find anything 
as I leave it. Why will you always mash potatoes 
when you know I prefer them baked? Lamb 
again? Beef is the only meat fit to eat. You 
were out to-day when I came home; I detest 
coming in to an empty house. You want 
me to go out with you? Isn’t the day long 
enough for you to go out in without dragging me 
about at night? Yes, I am going out, but not to 
walk—there is some one I want to see. Annie, 
I found a button off this morning. Are you 
going to be the sort of woman that neglects her 
mending? Annie, how often must I tell you 
that I abominate socks that are over-darned. 
For whom are you saving? When my socks are 
worn out, throw them away. I won’t stand for 
pilgrimages with peas in my shoes. Buy a new 
set of shirts? Not much. Do you think I 
am made of money? You have time; put in new 
bosoms.” 

Annie listened to the ceaseless flow of com¬ 
plaint, at first making the mistaken effort to 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


37 


explain, to apologize, eagerly to promise better, 
then listening in silence, realizing that it was not 
a real grievance that Lew was voicing each time, 
not a distinct and individual error of which she 
was guilty, but that he was “ finding fault ” in the 
literal meaning of the words—seeking for it and 
so finding it, out of his new attitude and habit of 
mind. 

When a loving woman discovers this she has 
traveled far on the road to complete misery. 
The blindest, the most adherent, must under¬ 
stand that love does not thus express itself. She 
is conscious of the mute pleading of her sorrowful 
eyes for mercy, and, not receiving it, she knows 
that she is not loved, and to deprive the Annies 
of this world of love is taking from them the 
oxygen of the air they breathe. 

If Annie had had a temper, if she had ever 
retorted with sharp strength to her husband's 
reproaches, perhaps they would have ceased. 
There is a temper that is exasperated by meek¬ 
ness, that is infuriated by kicking something soft 
and yielding. 

“ A mild answer breaketh wrath," says Solomon, 
but it is not always true, for the mildness of the 
victim of a bad temper emphasizes the wrong of 


33 


A TT 0MAX'S WAT 


the wrathful, and it is not soothing to the dis¬ 
position to know one's self in the wrong. 

“I’m truly sorry that you don’t like it; I try 
to please you, Lew,” little Annie said each time, 
and because he knew that this was true Lew 
grumbled more and oftener. The little wife, 
growing thinner, with pathetic patience deeper 
engraved on her worn face, tried to smile at the 
man, who, still gay and debonnair among his 
acquaintances, was fast becoming a nagging 
brute at home. His wife’s silent, uncomplaining 
pathos irritated him; he worked himself up into 
daily furies of fault-finding to drown the voice of 
self-reproach, to numb the pangs of conscience 
as he looked at her. 

In the meantime the little house was the 
model of the neighborhood, spotlessly clean, 
perfectly in order—no other child had come to 
disturb that order, nor to fill the lonely woman’s 
heart—it was also the headquarters for cooking 
recipes at once the desire and the despair 
of the housewives of Annie’s acquaintance. 
No one, not her nearest and dearest friend, ever 
heard a syllable from Annie that should reveal 
the tragedy of her humdrum life, but women are 
quick to read one another, and the merest 


MARION AMES TAGGART 39 

acquaintance knew that little Mrs. Ivers was 
miserable. There were some who said that “It 
was a shame for such a charming, entertaining, 
merry, big-hearted creature as Lew Ivers to be 
tied to that dull, lifeless woman.” But there 
were others who guessed that Lew's charm was 
left at his door, kept in his yard, like his bicycle, 
to be taken and to take him abroad, and they 
condemned him. It cost him friends, and the 
day came when he needed friends. 

For when the mainspring of a life is broken, it 
may run on for a time—the only mechanism 
that will run under those conditions—but not 
forever. Annie died. The priest who knew her 
heart, knew her sanctity, knew her sorrow, her 
patience under a burden more wearing than the 
wife of many an actual criminal bears, looked on 
her, dead, with infinite pity, and a certain 
triumph. 

“This time she has answered his reproaches, 
and at last he will listen!" he thought. 

He was quite right. Lew was bewildered by 
the havoc in his home that Annie wrought with 
her folded, waxen hands. He had never read 
Coventry Patmore, but he thought it “was not 
like her great and gracious ways to leave him 


40 


A WOMAN'S WAY 


thus.” He was lost, helpless, and worse, he 
was overwhelmed with a contrition, imperfect 
enough, since it had its roots in selfishness, but 
still contrition for his cruelty. 

Not a corner, not an object in the house that 
did not cry aloud to him declaring her devotion. 
He lacked her, he needed her; before he had buried 
her he had seen how her patience, her goodness 
had borne with him, wrought for him, but he saw 
it in the midst of despair, as a man buried under 
an earthquake looks back at the light. The woman 
who had been Annie’s playmate, schoolmate, 
lifelong friend, stood long and tearlessly looking 
down into the casket. She had put a palm 
branch into Annie’s hand, but had strewn her 
pillow with white rosebuds. 

“ I’m glad you have won the palm, dear,” she 
whispered. “He was not worth it, but it earned 
you the palm at last. Curious,” she thought, 
straightening herself as she prepared to go. 
“Unkindness, cruelty, selfishness, neglect, but 
made her more faithful! Depth against shallow¬ 
ness, nobility opposed to meanness, the rich 
nature lavished on the poor one—it’s the old 
story: A woman’s way!” 


Major Bobby, Peacemaker 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART 

In hot haste and hotter temper Jack Alwyn had 
taken himself off to parts unknown, at least to 
his former friends. He had gone off generalizing 
from his individual experience, after the fashion 
of most mortals. 

“All women," he said bitterly, “are like that. 
To play a man as they would play a trout, 
heartlessly, in spite of their soulful eyes and 
ways; then cast him off when they have landed 
him, that is a woman’s fashion! Fools that the 
sons of Adam are to trust them! But no man 
worthy the name could conceive of such dastard 
tricks until he had been caught and branded.” 

Least of all women could one have thought 
Betty Bristead capable of deceit, she, so young, 
so sweet, so girlish, with innocent eyes and 
gentle ways! Yet when Chris Arthurs had made 
his appearance, good-looking, gay, attractive, 
and with the crowning grace of wealth to float 

all other charms, had not Betty turned from 
41 


42 


MAJOR BOBBY , PEACEMAKER 


Jack, forgetting the promises made by a thousand 
things that should have been as binding as 
spoken words? No, she had not refused him. 
He had not been quite abject enough to let her 
have that to laugh over, but she had done what 
meant that refusal was coming, and he had been 
strong enough to take himself off without the 
formal rebuff that was awaiting him. 

So said Jack over and over again in his con¬ 
fidences to his pipe when he had put more than 
a thousand miles between himself and any 
other old friend. 

If any one had told him that he had been 
unreasonably, madly jealous, that he had be¬ 
haved like all sorts of an idiot, and had gone 
away suddenly, guilty of the crowning injustice 
of not allowing his old playmate a chance to 
defend herself, Jack would have reiterated his 
certainty of his own position, and would have 
told you that it was easy to see how inexperienced 
you were in woman’s wiles. 

At first, that is. Later there came hours, 
which increased to days, in which Jack re¬ 
called sundry small straws which he had over¬ 
looked in riding down the wind of his own 
March-like blustering anger. He began to won- 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


43 


der, with growing uneasiness, if these little 
straws were all the time showing him the true 
direction of the wind, and he had not noticed 
them, though they indicated, if they indicated 
anything, favorable breezes that would have 
landed him in Betty’s love. 

In the meantime it was a changed and melan¬ 
choly Betty who remained at home. Remaining 
at home, its attendant inaction, is so bitterly 
hard! It adds half again to the woman’s share 
of the ills that befall humanity. Betty, held 
fast by the inexorable laws of maidenly be¬ 
havior, could not rush after Jack, even had she 
known whither to pursue him. It was not for 
her to seek him, offering or demanding explan¬ 
ation. So she had to sit by the hearthstone, 
like Cinderella, eating her heart out over the 
injustice, as well as the loss of Jack. It would 
have been harder for Betty than it was had it not 
been for Bob, usually called “the Major.” The 
title was purely honorary, given because of its 
bearer’s thirst for military glory. Bob was four 
that May,* he had been a little—about a quarter— 
past three when Jack left home—and he was Betty’s 
absorbing small brother. He was absorbing as 
a charge, being endowed with untiring activity 


44 


MAJOR BOBBY , PEACEMAKER 


of brain and muscle, but he was absorbing of the 
affections also, being, as he said himself—the 
Major frequently got his statements mixed— 
“The apple seed of Betty’s eye, and the apple 
core of her heart.” 

It was a fortunate thing for Betty’s heartache 
that this small “core of her heart” was left to 
her care by the invalidism of their mother. 
There was not much time for sighing during the 
Major’s waking hours. Betty meant him to be 
a priest, but whatever developed in Bob later, 
no truthful biographer would ever say that his 
vocation had been marked from his infancy. 
First of all things the Major intended to be a 
soldier, but there were moments when he weak¬ 
ened at the splendid spectacle of the motorman 
letting the trolley car forge ahead, and he enter¬ 
tained the idea of following that career. Jack 
had taken him to a circus before he went away. 
There were times when the thought of the clown 
almost deafened the Major’s ears to the trumpet- 
call of the army. However, these were slight 
vacillations of his magnetic needle. As a rule 
it pointed due West Pointward, and the Major 
lived up to his brevet. 

Memorial Day, coming two weeks after his 


MARION AMES TAGGART 45 

fourth birthday, fired his imagination. The 
Major asked and received the most detailed 
explanation of its reason and manner of obser¬ 
vance from Betty, who, mindful of the change 
which she hoped to work in the embryo military 
man, added that with the flowers and flags of the 
civic offerings to the brave dead, the Major must 
not forget to offer prayers for their souls. Un¬ 
questionably the Major much preferred the 
flags, the bands, even the flowers, to prayers. 
He climbed on Betty’s knees, resting firmly on 
his own two little sturdy ones, and took his big 
sister’s pretty face between his chubby hands 
in a manner that he had long known she could 
not resist. 

“Could I go dec’rating, Betty, could I?” he 
implored. “Will you let me go to the cemitrary 
and put flowers on the soldiers? Wouldn’t you 
please, Betty?” 

Betty smilingly shook her head. 

“Not alone, Major Bobby,” she said. “I 
couldn’t let you go all alone, even though it 
isn’t far. I’ll take you out to see the procession, 
and to-morrow, when there are fewer people 
there, I will take you to see the flowers in the 
cemetery.” 


46 


MAJOR BOBBY , PEACEMAKER 


The Major’s full red lips pouted. “I want to 
go to the cemitrary when it’s the day to go to the 
cemitrary,” he said decidedly. “And I don’t 
want to see flowers; I want to put flowers.” 

Betty for once was firm, and the Major slid 
down from her lap with so much gunpowder in 
his expression that one would have taken him 
for an artillery major. As a rule the Major was 
not disobedient to orders from his superior 
officers, but this time he was insubordinate. 
And for once, and for a wonder, he kept his 
thoughts to himself. 

On Memorial Day morning he rose early and 
softly slipped on his clothes with more speed than 
accuracy, and went out into the garden. There 
are not many flowers in bloom in a northern 
last week of May. Bobby gathered lilacs, 
bleeding heart, striped grass, ladies’ delights, 
without regard to design, still less to length of 
stems. He deposited his offerings well under 
the edge of the piazza—in case the May morning 
had called forth other early risers—and went 
into the house with greater speed than could 
have been expected from a major who mounted 
steps, one at a time, with one hand spread on a 
knee as he panted audibly. 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


47 


The Major had in view an end which he knew 
quite well was unlawful, adding heavily to his 
record in the wrong column that morning. 
Betty had a bowl, a curious Japanese rose 
bowl that the Major admired greatly for its 
golden dragons and dark red bridges. He knew 
that Betty cherished the bowl to the untouchable 
point; the Major was allowed to look at its rich 
color and queer designs, but never to lay so much 
as the tip of a pudgy finger upon it. And now 
he meant to take it, before that indulgent sister 
was come down to protect it, and to carry it off 
to the “cemitrary” to hold his offerings to dead 
heroes. It was like violating a flag of truce! 
The Major knew by the uncomfortable sensation 
under his Russian blouse and by his guilty 
starts when he imagined he heard a noise, that 
he was a criminal, that he was false to his colors, 
but he persevered. He wanted to decorate 
graves, wanted to so much that he was ready to 
offend Betty! 

He did not know, of course, that the queer 
Japanese bowl had come to Betty full of roses 
from Jack not quite a year ago, and that she 
would have given the Major anything to ransom 
this last gift from Jack before he had thought so 


48 MAJOR BOBBY, PEACEMAKER 

ill of her. Happily the stout-armed little Major 
got the bowl down without harm to it, and bore 
it off undiscovered. He laid his flowers in it, 
and started away, burdened beyond the powers 
of his short arms to endure. He went on pluckily, 
though the weight was considerable and the 
diameter of the purloined bowl disproportioned 
to his growth. 

“If only he could have taken his red ’spress 
wagon! But it squeaked one time and growled 
the next; it wouldn’t do to try to drag that thing 
if you didn’t want to be caught!” thought the 
Major. 

At the cemetery gate the Major sat him down 
in utter weariness and mopped his wet brow 
with his sleeve. He “wished he hadn’t,” most 
devoutly he “wished he hadn’t,” but he had, 
and, though now it was wrongly directed, the 
Major possessed the tenacity of a Casabianca. 
Breakfast looked alluring, and, seen through 
its softening medium, Betty’s grief over his 
absence and the loss of her bowl was touching to 
the contrite Major. It was annoying, too, that 
this officer could not read, for now that he had 
come to the “cemitrary” by his devious ways, 
he could not tell which were the graves 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


49 


of fallen heroes and which those of peaceful 
civilians. 

“I guess I’ll put ’em here anyhow, ’cause it’s 
nearest,” said the Major aloud. 

There were other graves as near, but his 
choice was influenced by the little lamb lying 
on the one selected, a dear little marble lamb, 
which bore on its white base the words—unread 
by the Major: “ Our little Willie. Aged two years.” 

The Major set his bowl close by the marble 
lamb’s head, and tumbled his flowers on it; their 
stems were too stiff, in the case of the lilacs, to 
permit arrangement, while the stems of the 
ladies’ delights were too short to matter. 

“There!” panted the Major, and looked up to 
see a gentleman close beside him, watching him 
with gloomy amusement. 

“Hello, Major!” he said. “What sends you 
here at this hour? Don’t you know me?” 

“ No, I don’t,” said the Major promptly. “ I’m 
going home now. I was dec’rating soldiers' 
graves.” 

“I see!” observed the stranger glancing at the 
marble lamb. “I should think you might 
remember Jack. Who took you to the circus 
last June?” 


50 MAJOR BOBBY , PEACEMAKER 

“You/' returned the Major promptly, “but I 
forgot how you looked. I guess you’ve grown.” 

“Well, Major, that’s good of you,” said Jack. 
“We ought all of us to grow, and I’ve had plenty 
of food for growth. So your sister gives you that 
bowl to play with, does she?” 

“No,” said the Major, reddening painfully, 
but always stoutly truthful however he failed 
otherwise. “ I took it. It’s her best and dearest 
bowl. I may look at it but never, never touch 
it. P’r’aps I’d better take it home with me.” 

Jack’s face had lightened. He laughed aloud 
as he asked: “How can you do that if you mayn’t 
touch it? Shall I carry it for you, Major? 
Does your sister—well, it’s an awkward question 
to put to an officer decorating his fellow-soldiers’ 
graves on Memorial Day—but does your sister 
know you came here this morning, old chap?” 

The Major looked up, then more quickly looked 
down. He caught the tone of solemn banter, 
but he understood only the question, which he 
found quite as awkward as Jack considered it. 

“Betty wasn’t up,” he said softly. 

“Then will you let me take you home—and 
carry the bowl which I think you said you 
borrowed? Come on, Major. I’m afraid your 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


51 


sister is having a hard time, finding you missing,” 
said Jack holding out a hand at which the Major 
looked hesitatingly, then put his own into with a 
sigh of relief, for he was very tired. 

The pair walked along in silence, the Major 
occasionally stealing a glance upward into the 
abstracted face of his escort, and hoping that he 
would not drop the precious bowl, which he held 
under his further arm. 

Suddenly the tall man stopped, and looked 
down at the small boy. 

“Say, Major Bobby, what do you know about 
Chris Arthurs?” he asked, almost as if he were 
ashamed of the question. 

“What’s Chrissarthurs?” asked Bobby. 

“Don’t you know him? Doesn’t Betty know 
him? Hasn’t Betty a friend named Chris 
Arthurs?” cried Jack, the foolish. 

The Major shook his yellow head hard and fast. 
Then he looked relieved. 

“You mean yeller chrissarthurs that smell so 
bitter? They’re all gone. They were gone 
’fore snow came. Betty doesn’t call ’em chriss¬ 
arthurs, but it’s ’most that. Some were white, 
but Betty likes the yeller best,” he said. 

Jack laughed long and loud, and it was sheer 


52 


MAJOR BOBBY , PEACEMAKER 


good fortune that his left arm did not crack 
the bowl with the hug he gave it, nor his right 
hand crush the small brown one it grasped so 
tightly. 

They found Betty on the piazza, pacing up 
and down, scanning earth and sky for a clue to the 
Major. That officer freed his hand when he saw 
her, and ran to her with a gush of affectionate 
contrition. They hugged each other close. Then 
the Major remembered. 

“Oh, Betty, here’s Jack!” he said. And for the 
first time Betty was aware of another than Bobby. 

She turned so white that the Major was badly 
frightened. But Jack sprang to catch her, 
crying: “Betty, Betty, can you forgive me?” 

In a moment Betty rallied, and out there on 
the piazza, in the full view of the neighbors, 
as well as of the wondering Major Bobby, she 
proved beyond all question that she not only 
could, but would forgive Jack. 


We Two and Miss Pamelia 

BY MAUD REGAN 

Cynthia and I, having attained the twenty- 
fifth mile-stone on our dual pilgrimage, can no 
longer, with any show of reason, dispute the fact 
that we are a staid, elderly couple. And yet, 
looking upon Cynthia I sometimes fancy the years 
a dream, so incorrigibly young is she despite her 
eight-and-forty summers, whose only records are 
the pleasant lines about her dark eyes that tell 
how often the smiles have come, and a slight paling 
of the amber lights in her rippling hair, to speak, 
alas, of an approaching sunset. 

With me it is a different matter. All the 
world can see in me a rather stooping, prosy 
fellow, palpably past his prime—all the world but 
Cynthia, and she, dear girl, views me through 
some roseate mist of dreams and illusions which 
enwraps and transforms my elderly unattract¬ 
iveness as once my youthful unworthiness. 

I daresay the world—that world which views 

me as I am, would smile could it behold the gay 
53 


54 


WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 


and gallant figure I am in Cynthia’s eyes, and I 
would smile with it; but through a mist that 
rises sometimes to my eyes when I reflect how 
poor and how unworthy of all this blessedness, 
I have come at last to fifty years! 

How swiftly the years of our married life have 
slipped by us—almost as telegraph poles flash by 
a thundering express. It was only last week we 
sighted the twenty-fifth, and with the children 
all around us, paused to give thanks for the 
pleasantness of the way. 

By way of silver-wedding gift, I had contem¬ 
plated surprising Cynthia with something rather 
special in the diamond line, remembering those 
young, happy years, when the children were 
small, and she had trudged gaily beside me to the 
Winchester parties, with a cluster of roses tucked 
in her sash and another caught, perhaps, in the 
waves of her amber hair. And though simple 
muslin frocks and garden roses became her 
wonderfully, it hurt the boy I then was to think 
they were the best I could afford toward Cynthia’s 
adornment. 

There was a baleful fascination for me in the 
famous tiara which crowned the dusky braids of 
Keith Erskine’s bride, in the diamonds gleaming 


MAUD REGAN 


55 


like dew on gossamer amid her priceless laces, for 
it was an open secret in Winchester that all these 
glories might have been Cynthia’s had she chosen 
in accordance with the tenets of a world which 
subsequently pitied her as having made “a 
rather poor match of it.” 

However, Heaven be thanked, the years have 
reversed that verdict which never troubled 
Cynthia. Few can realize my satisfaction in the 
knowledge that to-day she may have anything in 
reason; can and does, in the words of an old song, 
wherewith she was wont prophetically to silence 
my youthful repinings: 

“ Walk in silk attire and siller have to spare.” 

And if, like the Lady Clare, she still elects to 

“ Go by dale, and go by down, 

With a single rose in her hair,” 

it is entirely her own concern, for even the Erskine 
diamonds would have suffered by comparison 
with a certain tiara which I had mentally chosen 
for Cynthia’s silver-wedding gift. Now, my 
mental processes are by no means complex or 
involved, and yet the species of wifely clairvoy¬ 
ance with which Cynthia divines my thoughts 
and plans fills me with perennial amaze. There 


56 


WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 


were those diamonds, buried as deep in my 
thoughts as in their native mines, and yet it was 
only a matter of a few days till Cynthia, divining 
their existence, had by a series of artless, and 
seemingly irrelevant questions, conjectures, and 
assumptions elicited a full confession of my 
intentions. 

Having, as a preliminary token of appreciation, 
rumpled my grizzled locks in a manner ill-be¬ 
coming the grave and reverend seignior I have 
grown to be, she lapsed into a sweet gravity with 
which the years have dowered her, and, rather 
timidly, advanced her own theories for a more 
fitting celebration of a day forever blessed. 

It was an easy matter to bring me to her way of 
thinking—after all, what signify such gauds and 
gewgaws when one holds the very core and 
essence of happiness? So Mother Ursula, at the 
Providence, was taken into our counsels, and 
Cynthia’s silver-wedding day was kept in true 
scriptural fashion by a feast to the lame, the halt, 
and the blind; a beautiful country day for the 
little folk at the orphanage, and the foundation of 
a hospital cot in memory of the one little sunny- 
haired toddler we could not keep. And I fancy 
Cynthia’s lost diamonds are garnered up and 


MAUD REGAN 


57 


waiting her coming in that bright Other World 
to which he strayed so long ago, and the one 
shadow on our silver-wedding day was certainly 
not of their casting. 

It had been our hope to gather together very 
quietly the friends who five-and-twenty years 
ago bade us “ Godspeed ” on our journey. Cynthia 
had kept a little vellum-bound list among other 
girlish souvenirs, and we began quite hopefully 
with Father Frank, of whom the years had made 
an Archbishop, but who, genial and unchanged, 
might be relied upon to answer our summons. 
And then name after name on the yellowing list 
went echoing on to the Eternal Silence, and 
realizing how few were, after all, within reach of 
our welcoming voices, we came at last to Miss 
Pamelia. 

“Oh, it won't seem right at all without Miss 
Pamelia!” exclaimed Cynthia, sadly. 

I meant to have spoken of her long ago, but 
my tongue always betrays me when the theme 
is Cynthia, and if, unawares, a certain prosy, 
middle-aged figure has grown unduly prominent 
in the recital of your charity pardon one who has 
ever followed where Cynthia led. Twenty-five 
years have so inured me to blessedness as almost 


58 


WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 


to have banished the memory of a time when 
“the desire of the moth for the star,” seemed 
scarcely more mad and hopeless than my aching 
want of Cynthia. 

We were of such different worlds in the days 
when Miss Pamelia Dexter came to live in the old 
Schuyler place! It was quite an imposing prop¬ 
erty for quiet Winchester, its sweeping lawns 
divided from the streets by a high stone fence, 
and further screened from the vulgar gaze by a 
thick lilac hedge, with but one break where the 
iron gates swung open on a broad, graveled 
drive. There, through a double file of Lombardy 
poplars, one saw, as through a diminishing per¬ 
spective, the broad, square house of yellowish 
stone, rather grim but for the saving grace of a 
broad porch which the summer hung with fes¬ 
toons of rose and honeysuckle and the sturdier 
trumpet vine. On either side of the driveway, 
files of Old World flowers marched houseward: 
pinks, sweet williams, verbenas—gaily-clad bat¬ 
talions, marked off each from each by rigid little 
walls of box. 

Before the house all was neat, formal, con¬ 
ventional, but behind lay a great drowsy orchard, 
with a hundred fragrant aisles leading out to the 


MAUD REGAN 


59 


highway from which only a low, weather-beaten, 
moss-grown fence divided it. There one walked 
knee-deep in grass that was violet-bordered, or 
clover-decked, or daisy-powdered, as the season 
willed; and this fragrant bit of enchantment lay 
just between Cynthia’s house, which was large 
and white, and mine, which was dingy and small. 
Cynthia can not recall a time when Miss Pamelia 
did not live in Winchester, but my few years’ 
seniority has made me richer in the matter of 
memories. 

Mine vividly enshrine a year during which the 
old Schuyler place lay untenanted, and the youth 
of the neighborhood took fragrant and tooth¬ 
some toll of the garden and orchard. I can recall 
the distinct sense of injury with which it beheld a 
string of covered vans creaking and jolting its 
way beneath the drooping elms of Queen Anne 
Street, for they heralded the arrival of a rightful 
owner to the old Schuyler place, and rang the 
knell on unrebuked depredations. 

Curiosity had been rife concerning the wealthy 
old maid who had come to make this her home. 
“Soured and cantankerous” she loomed in the 
Cassandra-like prophesies of the veriest shrew 
who ever wore wedding-ring, while kindlier 


60 


WE TWO AND MISS PAM ELI A 


gossip conveyed to our young minds an impression 
that though wealth might temper the misfor¬ 
tune, “to be an old maid,” was to have drained 
the very dregs of woe. 

Despite the arrival of an inheritor to the orchard 
and the fruits thereof, the rosy-cheeked appeal of 
the Schuyler apples persisted, and I vividly recall 
the late August day which witnessed a fall in¬ 
evitable from the first. Comfortably ensconced 
in the crook of a bough, with conscience lulled 
by the sight of apples red and golden actually 
rotting in the grass, and a reflection that no old 
maid, however voracious, could consume the 
hundredth part of these which were yet ripening 
amid the glossy leaves, I happened to glance 
down through the screening branches and all my 
specious reasoning was immediately confuted. 
For there, gazing up at me with an air of whimsi¬ 
cal amusement, was a slender, graceful lady clad 
in some soft lilac stuff with little, foam-like 
touches of lace, scattered quite indescribably over 
it. Her eyes were soft, and clear, and brown, and 
her hair, which waved very softly, was silvery 
but for odd golden lights that crested its ripples 
as though some after-glow of youth yet lingered 
there. With hands clasped loosely behind her, 


MAUD REGAN 


61 


and head thrown back, she looked up at me for a 
moment, during which my heart sank with a thud 
I fancied audible, and then in a warm, rippling 
voice exclaimed: 

“Why don't you try the harvest-apple trees, 
little boy? The spies can hardly be good so 
early.” 

As I slid confusedly to earth, she prattled as 
gaily as though it were as natural for her trees to 
drop a fruitage of shabby little boys as of rosy- 
cheeked apples. I was well on my homeward 
way before I could realize that the grim spinster 
of Winchester gossip was one with the sweet¬ 
faced, gentle-mannered lady who had dismissed 
me with a cap full of apples and an invitation to 
return soon. 

When I availed myself of this permission I was 
accompanied by Cynthia, with whom I had 
established friendly relations through the agency 
of a strayed kitten which I had carried to the 
great white house and restored to its anguished, 
pinafored mistress, on a day forever memorable. 
For who knows if the larger world of arbitrary 
distinctions and shallow conventions would ever 
have afforded us a meeting-place if Cynthia and 
I had not forestalled its verdict by drifting to- 


62 


WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 


gether in childhood's sweet democracy? That 
our family was as gently born as hers, with a 
Mayflower ancestor somewhere in the pedigree, 
I used to remind myself in moments of later dis¬ 
couragement, when circumstances combined to 
thrust me further and further from the orbit where 
Cynthia radiantly revolved. The difference be¬ 
tween us was only a matter of money, after all. 
Perhaps that “only” marked the quality of my 
youthful inexperience. 

But somehow in Miss Pamelia's orchard, to 
which we returned each spring with the regu¬ 
larity of homing swallows, the voice of Cyn¬ 
thia's world only intruded as a distant and 
meaningless sounding of brass and tinkling of 
cymbals. 

And so, I fancy, it always rang in the ears of the 
orchard's gentle mistress. Seated on a rustic 
bench, her slender, jeweled hands busy with 
some trifle of needlework, her eyes would look 
beyond us out into a past at which we but 
dimly guessed, or sometimes she would read 
quietly in the books of poetry for which she had 
the fondness of an older generation. It was 
amid such a setting of spring and sunshine that I 
first heard Keat's “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” I 


MAUD REGAN 


63 


can recall the wistful sweetness of Miss Pamelia’s 
voice as it lingered on the line: 

“ Forever thou wilt love, and she be fair.” 

Even to-day the words associate themselves 
with a vision of Cynthia all in pink and white 
like the spring trees, sitting close to Miss Pamelia, 
with a memory of waving, sun-dappled grass, of 
swaying, blossom-laden boughs where the awak¬ 
ened birds were 

“ Happy melodists unwearied 
Forever piping songs, forever new.’' 

It was a world of enchantment, where it seemed 
quite possible to immortalize a joy wherein only 
Miss Pamelia, lingering wistfully on the line, 
“ Forever thou wilt love, and she be fair.” 

realized how impossible it is to stay the year at 
spring, or life at youth. 

I can scarcely expect the gentle reader (if any 
of that kindly clan yet survive), to be keenly 
interested in a courtship over which the blossoms 
of five-and-twenty springs have drifted, partic¬ 
ularly when I have betrayed my inexperience by 
beginning at the wrong end of the recital and 
carefully eliminating the suspense and uncertainty 
which were my portion as the lover of Cynthia. 


64 WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 

For beyond the orchard was a workaday world 
in which one toiled and feared and often well- 
nigh despaired; where the voice of worldly wisdom 
making moan over Cynthia’s folly awakened 
doleful echoes in the recesses of one’s being; 
wherein that young lady blew by turns hot and 
cold, and affected an absorbing interest in 
merrymakings of which one formed no part. 

Her innocent, girlish coquetries were barbed 
by a deep sense of my own insuitability for a 
being so radiant and courted, an opinion in 
which Cynthia’s lawful guardians heartily con¬ 
curred. 

When Keith Erskine’s attentions became con¬ 
spicuous, and I realized that the consensus of 
public opinion, backed by the weight of parental 
approval, favored his suit, each trifling recognition 
accorded him by Cynthia assumed tragic signi¬ 
ficance. And such gay unconcern as Cynthia 
opposed to the brunt of my boyish rages, such 
seeming callousness to all my heart-burnings! 

I can remember stalking angrily beside her 
beneath the drooping elms of Queen Anne Street, 
on a spring morning when my pen should have 
been busily scratching in the law office where I 
was aspiring to a partnership. She looked 


MAUD REGAN 


65 


provokingly cool and tantalizingly sweet, in her 
pink starched frock and the wide brimmed 
Leghorn hat that shaded her dark eyes, and left 
open to my inspection only a curve of peach¬ 
like cheek that never even flushed as I flung out 
the terrible indictment: 

“You are the most heartless coquette in the 
whole world, and I love you in spite of my better 
judgment!” 

To which Cynthia, pausing to prod the ground 
with a furled parasol, replied demurely: 

“Do you know I rather think that is the nicest 
way to be liked?”—a sentiment which, if recalled 
to her mind, she would doubtless to-day, as a 
mother in Israel, feel called upon to repudiate. 

That very afternoon it was my unhappy fate 
to behold a wagon full of young people sweep by 
the office window toward some sylvan picnic 
ground, and in the very first row, gayest of the 
laughing party, sat the heartless Cynthia, above 
whose flower-laden hat Keith Erskine held a 
foamy parasol with offensive solicitude. 

The picture remained with me through a 
sleepless night, during which I came to the 
decision that Cynthia must henceforth be left 
aside from my calculations, and since without her, 


66 WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 

life in Winchester would be manifestly impossible, 
I must cast about for fresh fields and pastures 
new. 

What a figure of haggard tragedy I must have 
been writing Cynthia my formal “good-by” I 
How portentously grave my bearing as I stalked 
up the graveled driveway of the old Schuyler 
place to acquaint Miss Pamelia with my decision! 
I did not find her at home, so leaving a message 
that I would return in the course of the afternoon, 
I retraced my moody way past the sentinel 
poplars and the quaint old flower-beds, so like 
trim floral samplers in their clipped box frames. 

Miss Pamelia must have been waiting my 
subsequent return, for scarcely had I passed the 
iron gates when she rose from the porch and 
came hurriedly to meet me. I never saw her 
fine poise disturbed but this once as she hastened 
toward me with quick, uneven steps, her white 
hands clasping and unclasping in the stress of 
some emotion I could not understand. There 
was an expression almost of terror in her soft 
dark eyes, and her voice, as she greeted me, was 
low and unsteady. Coming immediately to the 
matter of my departure, of which she had been 
rather unaccountably apprised, since I fancied 


MAUD REGAN 


67 


only Cynthia was aware of my resolution, she 
very earnestly urged me to reconsider my de¬ 
cision. To all her reasoning I opposed the 
adamantine firmness of youth. And finally she 
seemed to acquiesce, but always with that in¬ 
explicable terror in her dark eyes. 

Then seizing both her white hands, and stam¬ 
mering my inarticulate good-bys and thanks 
for the unfailing kindness of many golden years, 
I swept a valedictory glance over the porch, into 
the cool dimness of the hall, and thence dow r n 
the line of sentinel poplars that seemed to march 
away into the outer darkness of a world where 
there was no Cynthia. 

Just as I turned away, Miss Pamelia recalled 
me with a request to bring her a book she had 
forgotten on the rustic bench in the orchard. 
The triviality of the request at such a moment 
struck sharply on my jangled nerves. I shrank 
from that last sight of the orchard, that fragrant, 
blossomy fool's paradise, where I had dreamed 
such sweet mad dreams, to which I must return, 
sane and sorrowful, on Miss P amelia’s trivial 
errand! 

The book was indeed there, as I found after¬ 
wards, a volume of Keat’s, face upward, with a 


68 


WE TWO AND MISS PAMELIA 


whole drift of pink and white petals fallen 
across the line: 

“ Oh happy, happy boughs that never shed your leaves 
Nor ever bid the spring adieu. ” 

But that was for subsequent notice, since for the 
moment all was forgotten in a vision of Cynthia, 
a disconsolate little figure with arms outspread 
upon the back of the bench and nothing visible 
but a bowed head crowned with amber waves, 
and a crumpled pink frock. 

And when, after much persuasion, she could be 
brought to look up, it was with eyes tearwet— 
can it be believed?—for the cruelty of my good-by. 
So then and there it was settled that there would 
never be another till that last good-by of all, 
presaging, as we hope and believe, an eternal 
reunion. 

Cynthia and I were married in the autumn, 
and what time we could spare from our own 
dove-cot you may be sure Miss Pamelia claimed. 
Her joy in our happiness was beautiful and 
touching in one whose life must have gone sadly 
awry, as we guessed from a little unconscious 
half-revelation she made to Cynthia. 

It concerned a girl whom she said she had once 


MAUD REGAN 


69 


known. She had been thought beautiful, and 
for this reason partly, partly perhaps because of 
her wealth and family prestige, had been courted 
and indulged to an extent which fostered and 
exaggerated the girlish traits of pride and caprice 
that marred a nature fundamentally true and 
loving. She was to have married a man who 
loved her devotedly, but whose spirit, matching 
her own, chafed at her constant caprices, coquet¬ 
ries, and exactions. And one day the crisis was 
precipitated by some trifling notion which he 
ventured to dispute. She had never been 
thwarted in all her life, and opposition from such 
a source she could brook least of all. She flung 
at him some quick, cruel words to which he made 
no reply other than a long, searching glance. 
Then his face set like a flint and he turned from 
her. 

“I remember—or she told me,” said Miss 
Pamelia, “that she was standing on the porch, 
and as he turned her eyes smarted with sudden 
tears, and she stretched out her hands irreso¬ 
lutely, and tried to call his name, but the old habit 
of pride held her in a vise. And he walked 
steadily onward—quite out of her life* there 
was no one to turn him back.” 


70 


WE TWO AXD MISS PAM ELI A 


“Oh, did she never see him again?” said Cyn¬ 
thia in low, shocked accents. 

“Nobody turned him back,” reiterated Miss 
Pamelia, dully. This seemed to her the crowning 
wonder—the last cruelty of all. “But perhaps, 
years after,” Cynthia said hesitatingly, “she 
might have forgotten—have grown to care for 
some one else.” 

“Oh, no!” said Miss Pamelia. “Others came, 
of course—but they never mattered.” And if the 
girl was indeed Miss Pamelia, as I almost believe, 
remembering her eyes as she sent me to seek 
Cynthia in the orchard, one felt they never 
could. 

She lived to be quite an old lad} 7 , for she must 
have journeyed beyond the last outposts of youth 
when she came to the old Schuyler place and 
her godchild, Cynthia Second, was wearing 
pinafores when quite suddenly she left it. 

But this time no moving vans jolted and 
creaked beneath the trailing elm-boughs, for Miss 
Pamelia had gone on a journey bearing only those 
treasures over which rust and moth have no 
dominion. Cynthia and I would have wished 
to have bought outright the old Schuyler place 
if only to have saved it from alien occupation. 


MAUD REGAN 


71 


but those were our days of narrow means, and 
we were unable to save even the household 
objects most intimately associated with our old 
friend’s memory. 

For the cumbrous mahogany and turkey car¬ 
pets upon which the town had commented dis¬ 
paragingly, brought rival dealers in antiques to 
quiet Winchester to bid and wrangle for their 
possession. Even the pair of tall Japanese 
vases with their writhing dragons guarding a 
fragrant treasure of spiced rose-leaves, with 
which Miss Pamelia kept them filled, turned out 
to be something quite unique in Satsuma ware, 
and brought a price far beyond our narrow means. 

So all that came to us was a little picture which 
no one specially wanted and which used to hang 
in Miss Pamelia’s room. It represented a 
beautiful woodland landscape through which 
wound a procession of gay, garlanded shepherd¬ 
esses and shepherds, playing upon reedy pipes. 
The foremost were halted before a broken tomb 
upon which, amid trailing vine and screening 
moss, there was yet decipherable the inscription, 
“ I also dwelt in Arcady.” 

It hangs over the fireplace in Cynthia’s dressing- 
room, and on the twilight of our silver-wedding 


72 WE TWO AND MISS PAM ELIA 

day, a common impulse held us silent beneath 
it, until we heard the children’s voices calling us 
from the hall and knew it was time to greet the 
guests who were bidden to our silver-wedding 
dinner. 

Then Cynthia softly detached a few long¬ 
stemmed roses from the sheaf I had sent her, and 
laid them on the mantle shelf above which the 
picture hung. 

“Dear,” she whispered, “it has been beautiful 
in Arcady! I wonder if you know?” 

And though her hand was in mine, her misty 
eyes were on the lonely forest tomb—so still 
for all the piping—where, amid creeping moss 
and trailing vine, was set the little epitaph that 
might have been Miss Pamelia’s. 


The Bells of Santa Marta 


BY MARY E. MANNIX 

It had once been a small family chapel be¬ 
longing to the Denaigres, old Spanish Califor¬ 
nians with a French name, which had come 
down to them from some adventurous Gallic 
ancestor, settled in Spain during the long- 
continued wars which had devastated the 
European continent for so many hundred years. 

They had owned thousands and thousands of 
acres at Pala Verde—to which their immense 
rancho owed its name, that had been given 
them by the Spanish crown, while Indians, 
quiet and peaceful as are the Californian ab¬ 
origines still, roamed the neighboring valleys 
and shot game in the surrounding mountains. 
All about the borders of the rancho flowed a 
beautiful little creek, never entirely dry, even 
during the hottest summers, winding in and out 
in such rambling fashion, and appearing at such 
unexpected places that it had received the 
name of El Vagamundo, by which appellation the 
73 


74 THE BELLS OF SANTA MARTA 

rancho was also sometimes designated. About 
the center of the vast domain there were two 
slight elevations, not high enough to be called 
hills, yet sufficiently elevated to dominate the 
landscape for a considerable distance all around. 
On one of these elevations stood the spacious 
dwelling-house of the Denaigres, on the other 
the little chapel, built and decorated in honor 
of a Marta, a great-grandmother, w 7 ho had been 
renowned and venerated for her wonderful 
beauty and exceptional virtues. Martha, her 
patron saint, seemed to have endowed her with 
her own domestic qualifications, as also with 
more than a sprinkling of the piety of Mary. 
Both house and chapel were built of adobe, 
in low mission style, though the chapel was once 
surmounted by a gilded cross, which could be 
seen up and down the valley for many a mile. 
Gray and peaceful, they had both looked down 
upon the fertile vale beneath them, the rambling 
stream, fringed with elder-bushes, cottonwoods, 
and sycamores forming a pleasant and sightly 
outline of the whole delightful valley. From 
the trees that nestled closely along its borders 
hung a tangle of grapevines, loaded in autumn 
with delicious fruit; wild roses grew everywhere 


MARY E. MANNIX 


75 


about them, filling the air with their spicy, 
delicate perfume. Behind the chapel two im¬ 
mense pepper trees had stood side by side from 
time immemorial. Their gnarled trunks were 
of wonderful girth, their heavy, though lace-like 
boughs, spreading, like a couple of huge um¬ 
brellas, over a wide extent of ground, thick 
with a carpet of withered leaves that fell un¬ 
ceasingly from the drooping branches. Under 
this canopy was shade and coolness; there one 
could rest, hidden and quiet, from the heat of 
the day and the clamor of men. There was a 
tradition among the Denaigres that the secluded 
spot had been a welcome resting-place for many 
a pair of weary Franciscans, trudging on foot, 
or on the backs of patient, plodding burros, 
from San Carlos to San Diego by the sea. Be¬ 
tween the pepper trees and the chapel, pendent 
from a stout oaken beam, held in place by thick 
posts of the same enduring wood, were two 
bells, shapely, symmetrical, silver-toned, whose 
notes could be heard all through the valley, 
when, as was the custom in those days, they 
sounded the Angelus at morning and evening. 
They had come from old Spain; it had cost a 
small fortune to cast and transport them, but 


76 


THE BELLS OF SANTA MARTA 


in those days, when cattle roamed by thousands 
among the hills, each individual steer representing 
so much gold, money flowed out from the De- 
naigre coffers as freely as it went in. All this 
was true of Pala Verde before the downfall of 
Spain in old California. But with the coming of 
the Americans everything had changed. The De- 
naigres had experienced the fallen fortunes of 
their neighbors, the women had married badly, 
and the men became reckless and incompetent 
through poverty and shiftlessness. 

At the time of the opening of our story, the 
once broad acres of Pala Verde had dwindled to 
a mere handful, the former spacious and com¬ 
fortable homestead was almost roofless, and 
crumbling to decay. On the opposite hill, all 
that was left of the ruined chapel were a couple 
of window-frames staring like a pair of melancholy 
eyes upon the passer-by, while through their 
huge openings the birds flew by day to their 
nests among the pepper trees, and owls and bats 
by night made their resting-place within the 
irregular arches. 

The Denaigre family now numbered but three: 
the father, a man of dissipated habits and ex¬ 
pensive tastes without any means of gratifying 


MARY E. MANNIX 


77 


the latter, a son, Hypolito, at present absent in 
San Francisco, where he was working in a very 
subordinate capacity, and Marta, a daughter, 
about eighteen years of age. The girl was 
beautiful in person and in mind; she seemed to 
have inherited the soul of her wise and pious 
ancestress. From her earliest childhood, she 
had longed to become a nun, an attainment 
which seemed impossible at present, as she was 
the sole companion and guardian of her unfor¬ 
tunate father. There were also two Indian 
servants, Miguel and Refugio, his wife. Marta 
knew or desired no greater pleasure in her life 
of privation and loneliness, than to sit beneath 
the pepper trees, and say her Rosary on the spot, 
hallowed and sanctified, as she had often heard, 
by the feet of the holy men of other days. She 
loved the bells, too—those deep-throated, sono¬ 
rous, swinging bells, that a touch would coax 
into the most harmonious music! 

But one day in early summer, the girl was 
cruelly awakened from her contented dream. 
Her father, who had been absent in Monterey, 
a short day’s journey from Pala Verde, returned 
about eleven in the morning, accompanied by a 
stranger. The man was old, bent, and wrinkled. 


78 


THE BELLS OF SANTA MARTA 


He had yellow skin, a hooked nose, and long, 
straggling white beard. A veritable Shylock 
in appearance, Marta would have said if she 
had ever come to the knowledge of Shakespeare. 
And the man was really a Jew, a money-lender 
of San Francisco, to whom her father had been 
deeply in debt for several years. They had met 
in Monterey—and the Jew had insisted on 
accompanying Denaigre home, in order to see if 
there was any available asset on which he could 
seize, threatening his debtor with dire conse¬ 
quences, and the withdrawal of further accommo¬ 
dations, if something was not forthcoming. 
Wily and astute, he had plied his victim well 
with liquor on the way, in order that he might 
do better for himself when they should have 
made an inventory. 

“Martita!” said her father, as he stumbled 
into the sala, or all that was left of that once 
grand apartment. “This is my friend, the 
Senor Abraham Michaelis. He comes from 
‘the city/ on business. He will dine and sleep 
here. Tell Refugio to make ready something 
appetizing—one of her stews—and some crisp 
tortillas” 

The Jew bowed low, and would have kissed 


MARY E. MANNIX 


79 


the hand of the young girl had she permitted it. 
But she withdrew it quickly from his clasp, 
noting at the same time his cruel mouth and 
beady eyes—and also that he was perfectly 
sober, while her father had been drinking heavily. 
Without a word she repaired to the kitchen. 

While dinner was being prepared, Denaigre 
and his guest walked through the house, in 
which there was nothing of any value, and then 
about the place, where there was little more. 

Through her bedroom window Marta saw 
them pause in front of the chapel at last, then 
walk slowly toward the bells; she observed that 
the Jew pointed, gesticulated, nodded his head 
several times, and finally rubbed his skinny 
hands together with great satisfaction. When 
they had returned, and were seated at table 
Denaigre said: 

“My daughter, I am under deep obligations 
to our good friend Michaelis here, and he has come 
down that he may be satisfied of a claim I am 
long owing him. We have arranged everything 
satisfactorily. I have given him the two black 
burros and the bells.” 

“What bells?” exclaimed Marta, in horror. 

“My bells—our bells —your bells,” shouted 


80 


THE BELLS OF SANTA MARTA 


Gaspare, incensed at the reproach implied by her 
tone. 

“The bells of Santa Marta! The blessed 
bells!” repeated the girl. “Father—you could 
not do that!” 

“ I have done it,” was the reply. 

“Senorita, it is business—only business,” 
interposed the Jew in a wheedling tone. 

“But they are blessed!” again cried Marta. 
“They were for my great-grandmother. She 
was so good. And she loved them. And they 
have been so long there. They are sacred, 
father, sacred; God will punish us if we sell 
them” the girl continued, altogether ignoring 
the Jew. 

“I have told you already that they are sold!” 
responded Denaigre, striking his fist on the 
table. “They are but so many pounds of 
copper and silver. They are no longer used for 
their first intention. It is better to pay one’s 
debts than to be dishonorable for a sentimental 
thing. To-morrow they come down—to-morrow 
Michaelis loads them on the black burros, and 
they go to the city to be melted in the furnace.” 

But Marta could bear no more. With tears 
rolling down her clear, olive cheeks, she arose 


MARY E. MANNIX 


81 


and left the table and the room. The men did 
not see her again that afternoon, though if 
they had looked for her, they could have found 
her on her knees, in the shade of the pepper trees, 
begging Our Lady and St. Martha to avert 
the threatened misfortune. 

During the remainder of the day Denaigre 
continued to drink deeply, and the Jew, his 
mission accomplished, drank with him. When 
evening came, the Californian, with an innate 
sense of their unfitness to appear in the presence 
of his daughter, in which he was seconded by 
Michaelis, bade Refugio fetch their suppers to 
the arbor, leaving the dining-room to Marta. 
But the girl could eat nothing. Throwing 
herself upon her bed, she lay with her face toward 
the window, from which she could gaze for the 
last time upon her beloved bells, now plainly 
visible in the moonlight, the precious bells 
which after to-night she was to see no more. 
About nine o’clock she became aware of two 
forms going in the direction of the old chapel, 
and soon realized that they were carrying blankets. 
They disappeared, and did not return. Presently 
Refugio appeared at the door of her bedroom, 
bringing her a cup of tea. Marta, hoping against 


82 


THE BELLS OF SANTA MARTA 


hope, had not revealed a word of the depth of 
infamy into which her father had fallen, pray¬ 
ing that something would avert the dreadful 
deed. 

The Indian woman knew, however, that some 
great new trouble had come upon the lonely 
girl. But she forbore to question her, as is the 
custom of her people. 

“ Where is my father?” asked Marta, sitting 
up to drink the tea. 

“They are going to sleep under the pepper 
trees,” said Refugio. “They say that in the 
house it is too warm.” 

“Very well,” rejoined Marta, slowly and 
sadly, for she had intended, as soon as the house¬ 
hold should be at rest, to steal out and keep a 
last long vigil before her beloved bells. Refugio 
left her. She lay for a long time silent, watching 
the moon go down behind the hills. Midnight 
came—then utter darkness, and at last the 
weary girl fell into a heavy sleep. Suddenly 
there came a fearful sound, like the rushing of 
many winds and many waters, a dull, rumbling 
roar, as of mighty thunder, the earth swayed 
and trembled, as though lifted from its foun¬ 
dations. The terrified girl, springing from her 


MARY E. MANNIX 


83 


bed, found herself in the open air, beside Refugio 
and Miguel, who had rushed from their cabin 
only to see it falling in ruins behind them. They 
clung to each other, trembling and crying. In 
the midst of her terror, Marta’s first thought 
was of her father, though she apprehended no 
danger for him, sleeping in the open. But 
when, as the temblor subsided, and, venturing to 
look about them, the trio began to think it 
might be safe to re-enter the house, she wondered 
why her father did not make his appearance. 
Surely the potations he had taken could not 
have been so deep that such a frightful shock 
as of rending heaven and earth would not have 
aroused him and his companion. 

‘'Let us look for my father,” she whispered, 
leading the way and stepping cautiously. The 
Indian man and woman followed her. They 
crossed the garden with its uprooted firs, and 
reached in the darkness the little hill of Santa 
Marta. All they could see was the pepper 
trees, still standing. The ruins of the chapel had 
been completely demolished. They had fallen 
upon the lower limbs of the two sleeping men, 
under the shadow of the giant trees, while the 
bells of Santa Marta, dislodged from their 


84 


THE BELLS OF SANTA MARTA 


supports, lay prone upon the upper portion of 
their crushed and lifeless forms. 

For many a year the silver-toned bells of Santa 
Marta have hung in the courtyard of a convent at 
the foot of the Sierras. Old people in the 
neighborhood call them “the bells of the dead,” 
for they are rung only for requiems and funerals, 
and on the Day of All Souls they toll every hour. 
There was never such a melancholy sound, though 
it is at the same time, devotional and beautiful. 

Recently there died within this convent Sister 
Mary Martha, a nun of great sanctity who had 
given the bells to the institution which for so 
many peaceful years was her chosen home. 
In the world, which she left in the flower of her 
youth, she had been known as the daughter of 
Gaspare Denaigre. 


The Picture in the Fire 

BY JEROME HARTE 

Days there were when life seemed very much 
worth while to Margaret Mullen, for she had a 
work to do in the world, and the calm serenity of 
a Christian, Catholic mind that lifted her above 
the ordinary worries of daily pettiness. Indeed, 
up to this time, her common sense, coupled with 
her faith, had brought her unscathed through the 
sad humors of a life that at best had been both 
lonely and hard. 

But to-day there was a restless sorrow in the 
very air, and poor Margaret's heart was attuned 
to it. The clouded sky that hung low above the 
housetops shed only a gray, yellow light that was 
worse than complete darkness, the ground under¬ 
foot was deep with slush, into which a driving, 
wet snowfall beat mercilessly, and the wind cast 
the dripping snowflakes against her window-pane 
with a low, moaning sound. Under ordinary 
circumstances, Margaret Mullen would have 

gloried in the inclement weather. It meant an 
85 


86 


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE 


uninterrupted afternoon in which to work and, 
with a waiting list of magazine and newspaper 
articles to be written, no one knew better than she 
what need she had just then for an afternoon to 
herself. 

But instead of drawing the curtains and 
lighting her work-lamp, as calm reason had told 
her for the last two hours to do, Margaret wan¬ 
dered aimlessly about the room, from window to 
window, where she stood idly, the curtains in her 
nervous fingers, staring out upon a wet world 
where no man ventured, and from the window to 
the dancing fire, where her armchair, drawn 
cozily, invited but did not attract. Margaret's 
piquant face, for many years now trained to a 
serenity of expression that made it lovely, was 
as overclouded as the day's skies and her eyes 
were heavy with unshed tears. She had come 
again to the turning of roads, and she felt that she 
must choose her way, even as she had felt that she 
must do for many a day past. But why had God 
put the choosing upon her on a day like this? 

Again she crossed to the window and stood there 
swinging the draperies to and fro. There was 
an unconscious fierceness in her grasp and the 
frown on her face was rather troubled than 


JEROME HARTE 


87 


bad-tempered. She sighed, wearily, a long sigh 
that was half a sob. 

“If the sun were only shining,” she said, aloud, 
to herself, “it would not be so hard!” 

She paced the room again and paused at the 
table in the center. On the mirror tray in the 
table’s middle, stood a great bouquet of roses. 
They were the gift of a man who loved her, and 
gloried, too, in his love for her, although the 
thirty years of her thoughtful life had robbed her 
face of much of the fresh loveliness that a man 
usually looks for in the woman whom he would 
make his wife. She knew he loved her, even as he 
knew it, and yet Margaret, such is the perversity 
of even an extraordinary nature that can under¬ 
stand and appreciate, felt no answering throb in 
response to a love that was as rare as it was 
noble. 

Beside the rose bowl lay an opened letter. It 
was addressed to her in a sweeping, masterly 
hand. The writer of it had inspired in Margaret’s 
soul all that the worthy other man had failed to 
call up. Perhaps it was the irony of fate that 
the man’s heart had not been given to her, 
entirely oblivious of a self-interest that was all- 
absorbing. 


88 


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE 


It was an unhappy letter, and told its own 
story. Margaret read it again, though she had 
known its every word by heart since the postman 
had brought it to her that morning. As she picked 
it up and turned the leaves again, she looked back 
over the day and wondered how long, how long 
ago that morning had been. 

“My dear Margaret/’ the letter said, “I have 
had a most unpleasant hour of it. If my mind 
were in less of a turmoil, I would come to you 
rather than write this. But as I can not trust 
myself to come, I must write. I love you. I have 
told you so, and you know I tell you the truth. 
And yet, ‘it is not that I love Caesar less but 
Rome more.’ If I were a boy again, my love for 
you would dominate my life and eradicate all 
those other views of mine that stand between us. 
But I am no boy. You and I have passed 
youth’s milestone, and what we are the years 
have made us and there are not years enough to 
unmake. You yourself have said this. 

“ Once I had a religion. But that was long ago. 
I have no belief now, as beliefs go. Is there a 
God? Who knows? It has ever been a source 
of dispute between you and me. There is a 
nature and a fate to which all men are subject: 


JEROME HARTE 


89 


there is nothing more. There is birth and 
death: but the hereafter is a mystery that men 
blaspheme to assume. In neither a heaven nor 
a hell have I faith. There is, I say, only nature 
and evolution. 

“ It is a subject on which you and I have talked 
and quarreled and quarreled and talked for 
months. Be it so. I have deemed it sweeter 
to quarrel with you than to live in peace with any 
other woman in the world. But now our mar¬ 
riage raises up a more serious wall. I have been 
to your priest. Margaret, it is nonsense! I love 
you. Your wishes, your beliefs, will be sacred to 
me! Is not my word enough? The red tape of 
your Catholic system has struck on my nerves. 
You shall do as you please as my wife, but my 
spirit refuses to adopt your religion or to pen 
my name to a paper that would pledge a child, 
your child and mine, to be reared in the narrow 
confines of that religion! You have my promise, 
my word of honor, that you shall go your way. 
More than that I can not give. 

“How do I know how far your love commands 
you? I know it does not dominate your nature, 
any more than does my love for you dominate 
mine. The principles in me are stronger than 


90 


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE 


ulterior wishes. And what my word of honor 
could not accomplish, no signed statement could!” 

Margaret laid down the letter. Her eyes were 
dry and shining, and the red burned in her cheeks. 
There had been no doubt of her answer to that 
letter. Her heart had answered it in the reading, 
and her pen had long ago trailed a few quick 
sentences in reply. The letter had been some 
time on its way. Margaret was a woman of 
action, and her life’s road was arrow-straight. 
There were only two ways about things: the 
right and the wrong. And God’s people could 
only choose the right, no matter how bitter. 

But that was not the end of it. The letter 
written, she might have buried her aching 
heart in her work—but there was the other man! 
His love had placed her at the turning of the 
road, where she must choose her way, if not to-day 
then to-morrow or the next day or the next. 
And the decision had to be made soon, for in the 
withholding of it a noble heart suffered as it did 
not deserve to suffer. 

Margaret went back to the fire and dropped into 
the armchair that stood drawn there. A deep 
leather armchair opposite called up all unbidden 
the writer of the letter as she had seen him sitting 


JEROME HARTE 


91 


there so many, many times in the days just 
passed. He was a big fellow, and debonair, with 
the decisive air of a man who has worked to 
accomplish big things. His mind was on a plane 
with Margaret’s own—deep, thoughtful, broad 
usually, and imbued with a philosophy that was 
at once poignant and agreeable. Margaret and 
he had many tastes in common. They loved the 
same books and the same songs, the same birds, 
and the same flowers. They had read and 
sketched together, a glad year through, the 
gladdest year of Margaret’s busy life. And this— 
was the end. 

She turned her face from the roomy armchair, 
and determinedly set her thoughts toward the 
other man. The armchair had never seemed to 
attract him. He was a quieter man and less 
assuming, with none of the nonchalance and 
airs of his rival. His favorite one of her chairs 
had been a straighter, stiffer mission seat by the 
center table, and his manner of sitting in it 
lacked the picturesque ease of the other man’s 
pose. In business he had been successful, but 
quietly so, and no one would ever hear of his 
success nor praise him immoderately for it. His 
niche in life was as unobtrusive as it was honest. 


92 


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE 


Margaret and he had not the same tastes. 
He was neither musical nor artistic nor literary. 
He was content when she played and sang to him, 
because he loved her, but he did not appreciate 
what she played, nor the quality of her training. 
He smoked in content when she read to him, but 
it was with the joy of listening to the voice of the 
woman he loved rather than pleasure in her 
choice of reading. He read to her, too, with un¬ 
feigned happiness in the reading, choosing the 
books he had heard her say she loved. In their 
hours of companionship, he never suggested, 
never took the initiative, and Margaret and he 
could not read and laugh together as she and the 
other man had done—their minds were nurtured 
in different spheres! 

That he was kind and thoughtful of her always 
had appealed to Margaret in a half-vague realiza¬ 
tion of his worth. He and she had never quar¬ 
reled. He took her occasional pettiness and 
irritability with a quiet smile of sympathy that 
had in it nothing of an air of monotonous resig¬ 
nation. She knew that he understood her moods 
even if he did not understand her books and her 
pictures and her philosophy. And he respected 
them all, because he loved her so well. 


JEROME HARTE 


93 


Yet Margaret felt that, compared with her 
affection for the writer of the letter, she had for 
this man but little of that mad realization called 
love. Marry him? Yesterday she would have 
said no, a thousand times no, for yesterday she 
had told herself that she could spend her life 
with the other man. But this morning that 
letter had come. 

In the midst of the glowing red roses, when 
they had come that morning, a little note had 
lain. She had left flowers and note in their box 
hours after their arrival, crushed and miserable 
as she was with the letter hurting her very soul. 
Long after she had penned and sent her answer 
and had walked the floor like a caged animal, 
chafing against the gray of the sky and the gloom 
of the day, she remembered and took the flowers 
from the box. 

The note was simple, a reflection of the man 
who had sent it. “ These flowers remind me of 
you, Margaret, they are so beautiful/' he had 
written. “Some time to-day I am going to call 
you up and ask to come in to see you. I know 
how little chance I have to win you and how 
unworthy, too, I am; but a veritable love sickness 
has urged me to risk my all in asking you for an 


94 


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE 


answer to-day. If the roses spoke to you as 
they speak to me, I think they would repeat my 
story.” 

How could she choose to-day? Margaret’s 
heart ached. Why had it happened to-day, 
when all the world wept and moaned in tune to 
her heartache? To-morrow or next day, when 
the sun was shining, it might be less hard; but 
to-day— 

But she must choose to-day! And her answer? 
It could never be! Better a life alone with the 
work she had always loved, than a colorless 
companionship into which, for loyalty’s sake, 
the memory of this beautiful year could play no 
part! 

It could not be. She had thought of it in 
every light, before. She had thought especially 
of his religion. It was hers. They understood 
and loved the same God and worshiped Him in 
the same way. But until to-day, the beauty of 
this last had never struck her. Could she marry 
him, though, knowing her heart? What right 
had she to do that, even though the marrying 
him made his heart glad as it deserved to be 
made? 

The fire fascinated her. She stared at its 


JEROME HARTE 


95 


dancing blue and green flames until her dry eyes 
burned anew. She was not given to seeing 
pictures in the fire, but now there were all sorts 
of fantastic shapes and figures among the logs. 
She saw no face there, but the burning question 
seemed to wreathe itself with the flames: how 
could she decide to-day? 

And then, of a sudden, the flames took definite 
shape, and little baby faces laughed up at her 
from the dancing gleams. The faces added 
themselves to shapes, and child figures walked 
out of the fire and into her heart—wee lassies 
with fluttering long curls and big lashes, chubby 
little laddies with puckered mouths and sturdy 
legs, and dimpled-face babies, all rosy-cheeked 
and soft-eyed. The woman put out her empty 
arms to the flames and the cry that she gave was 
one of a pain that was not all understood. 

The telephone bell rang sharply, insistently, 
in a way that usually got on Margaret’s nerves. 
It roused her from her reverie. She listened 
dreamily to its ringing, her elbows raised, the 
backs of her locked fingers pressed against her 
lips. She got up slowly, her shining eyes fixed 
upon the flames, her locked fingers against her 
lips. She was loathe to leave the day-dream. 


96 THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE 

The telephone bell sounded again and again. 
Her hands dropped to her sides and she went 
toward the desk, as a dreamer goes in his sleep. 
She sank down in her desk-chair and took the 
receiver, tremblingly. 

“Yes,” she said, “I knew it was you. A bad 
day? I had not thought so really. It has 
been growing steadily brighter, hasn’t it? Indeed 
I got them. I can not thank you in words. 
The note? Oh, yes, I read that, too! Come 
to-day? Why not? I have expected you! Your 
answer? Somehow, I thought you would know 
what that was to be. Not that! Surely, you 
did not think— I would laugh at you if I were 
less happy! Did you think I would let you come 
to hear any other answer? I did not know 
you could laugh like that! Yes, come over, 
now. The weather wall not seem so gloomy, 
then!” 

Margaret hung up the receiver, slowdy. She 
sat there at her desk in the gray light of the 
room, her cheek against her folded hands, her 
soft eyes gazing across at the fire. She was quite, 
quite motionless and only the ticking of her 
mantle clock and the moan of the day outside 
broke the stillness. The minutes passed. A 


JEROME HARTE 


97 


bell sounded in the hall below. The woman 
jumped and laughed outright. It was a new 
Margaret and a young Margaret who opened the 
door to admit the happy sender of the roses. 













- 














































































































At Summer’s Close 


BY ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 

As they rode through the lovely, late summer 
woods that crowned the hill, George Hampton 
took great credit to himself for not proposing to 
Alice. For now, if ever, providentially, ideally, 
did it seem one of those rare occasions of the 
“time and the place, and the loved one alto¬ 
gether.Assuredly no more romantic mise-en- 
scene could there be than the quiet bridle-path 
overshadowed by oak and elm, scarcely stirring 
in the soft air of the September afternoon. 
Nor had Alice ever been more beguiling than in 
these moments when she sat so splendidly on her 
horse, her cheeks all flushed and glowing from the 
fine long dash they had just had down a level 
strip leading out to this crest where they now 
slacked reins and pace. Yes, surely the place 
and the loved one were at this moment all to be 
asked. 

Still George delayed—partly from the instinct 

that sometimes makes one go slowly, reverently, 
99 


100 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


to a great joy. And partly because, despite all 
the charm of the moment at hand, he fancied 
there would be a yet more perfect time, per¬ 
suasive as was this quiet-colored end of afternoon. 
There was an artistic strain in George, and if a 
chap couldn’t respect the eternal fitness of 
things when he proposed to a charming girl, 
when should he respect them? He and Alice 
were to ride back an hour later, and then seemed 
the better time for him to speak. For then, in the 
lingering after-glow, the path would be still 
lovelier. The loved one—well, Alice was always 
lovely! So he would wait. Besides, if things 
turned out as his fond hopes prophesied, he 
would then have Alice all to himself. Whereas 
now they were on their way to his uncle’s, and so 
many people would be there he would scarcely 
even see her. No, it was in every way best to 
wait. 

They were a splendid pair of young people as 
they walked their horses now slowly along the 
hilltop overlooking the wide, beautiful valley. 
Both were strong-limbed and supple, their 
cheeks and eyes glowed with health and the 
fine, clean vigor of youth. 

“I wish you wouldn’t go to-morrow,” George 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


101 


was saying. “ Aunt Marian hates to have you go. 
Do stay on—Maurice can look after you through 
the week, and Til still come up for week-ends 
to keep you from being utterly bored. This is 
the loveliest place in the world in October!” 

“It couldn’t be lovelier than Virginia!” an¬ 
swered Alice gayly. 

“Oh, you Virginians!” laughed George. 

But it was not so easy after all, for Alice to go. 
If not so bristling with diversions as some sum¬ 
mers, the season now coming to its close had 
been a delightful one. Since July she had been 
with her aunt, whose husband was the uncle 
of George and Maurice Hampton—these two 
young men being sons of his two brothers. The 
part of New York State in which they lived was 
the ancestral domain of the Hampton family. 
Two or three branches of it still lived there, 
and what with the numerous young members of 
it and the numerous friends of theirs frequently 
up for week-end visits and longer ones, Alice had 
spent quite a festive few months. 

As she and George paused a moment now 
looking down at the full-sheaved fields below, 
the view did indeed challenge the beauty of 
Virginia meadows or any others. Down by a 


102 


AT SUMMER’S CLOSE 


small artificial lake a cart could be seen with a 
figure in it—a figure not unlike George’s from 
this distance; there was apparently in both the 
same erectness of head and shoulders, while a 
nearer view would have thrown into relief 
George’s greater breadth of chest, his greater 
vigor, while revealing the frail cast of the limbs 
of the youth in the cart and the heavy walking- 
stick that now had to do constant service for 
one of them. 

“Look,” said George, “there’s Maurice in the 
valley.” 

A shade passed over Alice’s face as she glanced 
down silently. 

“Of what are you thinking?” asked George, 
who was at that stage where every flicker of 
Alice’s eyelashes had momentous significance 
for him. 

“I was thinking that in some ways Maurice 
is always in the valley.” 

“Yes,” said George. “Poor chap! Yet he’s 
such a brave fellow, a body never thinks of 
sentimentalizing over him. I can’t bear to 
have any one pity him.” 

“Oh, I’d never think of sentimentalizing over 
him!” Alice quickly answered. “Nor over any 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 103 

one else, more’s the pity!” George inwardly 
reflected. “But it does seem a shame,” the girl 
continued, “that with all his fine spirit and love 
of life, he can’t enjoy things as the rest of us do. 
He cares so for everything, I find myself for¬ 
getting all the time—” 

“Yes, I know,” said George, “yet sometimes I 
think he is more contented after all than any of 
us other fellows down in the fight of the world 
in the cities. Not that Maurice hasn’t his 
fight here, managing everything so splendidly 
as he does. Why, you know, since he was little 
over eighteen he had simply run everything on 
this big farm. You know, Alice,” he continued, 
as he drew his horse nearer hers, “I sometimes 
think he’s half in love with you. If you’d 
done it on purpose, I couldn’t forgive you. 
Maurice comes before every one with me.” 

“I’m glad you cfon’t find me guilty then,” 
said Alice after a little, smiling across at him 
with the serious shade not entirely gone from 
the eyes that now transferred their regard from 
the cousin in the valley to the other at her side. 

“No, you’re not exactly guilty,” answered 
George, presently, “you can’t help it, you know.” 

For, thought George, even in his own case, 


104 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


where the victim apparently should have been 
strong enough to take care of himself, he could 
not say that it was precisely Alice’s fault that 
he himself was now head over heels in love with 
her, and was just heroically biding his time to 
plead his suit. It wasn’t her fault at all. Doubt¬ 
less if one pressed far enough for causes, it 
was the fault of a couple of lovely generations of 
brave men and women whose spirit and beauty 
she had inherited, and the fault of a lovely 
environment, and gentle, happy circumstances, 
that were really responsible for having made Alice 
so charming that he and his cousin and the 
other fellows decided she was entirely the most 
delightful girl they had known for long and many 
a day. No, George knew there was no use 
blaming Alice when it was the fault of that 
environment and those old charming ancestors; 
indeed he was in no mood now to execrate even 
these—so pleasant was it to be under the influence 
of such charm. 

So much at least, in so far as he was concerned. 
But if he had really thought Maurice deeply in 
love with Alice and through deliberate effort 
of hers, that would have been a different matter— 
as he had suggested to her. Since they were 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


105 


little boys he and Maurice had been the greatest 
chums imaginable. Since Maurice’s accident 
when they were half-grown lads, leaving George 
alone to take their old tramps, to dash freely over 
the country as they had always done together, 
George’s love for the afflicted Maurice had grown 
deeper, and as tender as that of a woman. Under 
the old comradeship and boyish loyalty now ran a 
current of delicate sympathy and protective 
love on George’s side that made the two cousins 
even dearer than ever to such of their friends as 
had perception enough to see the relation in its 
entirety—a relation of such benefit to Maurice, 
but for that matter to George, too, by reason of 
the mystical workings of love, which paradox¬ 
ically enriches the dispenser even more than the 
receiver of its dear gifts. 

But though George had jokingly said to Alice 
that he believed Maurice was in love with her, 
he had not meant it very seriously. In the 
beginning he had been afraid of some such thing 
—not selfishly afraid, but rather because he 
fancied such a thing would only give pain to 
Maurice, who had such fine quixotism about 
everything, and who, George believed, would 
never, because of his lameness, ask a girl to 


106 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


share a life that would be necessarily in some 
aspects a hampered, somewhat restricted life. 
So George had been glad to see that what he at 
first fancied was going to be a test of dear old 
Maurice’s strength of will and self-effacement 
had turned out to be just the fondness of friend¬ 
ship and comradeship on the part of Maurice 
for Alice. And gradually he had realized that 
one thing that made him so fond of Alice was 
that they had all three become such friends. 
For he could not imagine himself caring for a 
girl who would not be fond of Maurice, or whom 
Maurice did not like. As things stood they 
bade fair to be ideal. When he married Alice, 
they could together make Maurice’s life richer 
and happier. They would have him down to 
New York; they would often come up here to be 
with him, and things would always be as much 
as possible as they had been during this lovely 
summer, when he and Alice had ridden horseback 
over the beautiful country with Maurice ac¬ 
companying them always in his cart. It would 
be just the same, only better—since by his 
marrying Alice she would really belong to them 
both more securely, if to him particularly; for of 
course George knew if he didn’t marry her him- 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


107 


self, some other chap promptly would if he 
could. He had half a notion to tell Maurice that 
he meant to speak to Alice on the way home. 
It would make the old fellow happy, he felt 
sure. 

Meantime they had slowly wound down into 
the valley. 

“Get down from your horse and ride over to 
the shop with me in the cart. I want to show 
you something,” Maurice had said to Alice 
after the greetings were over. “Go on to the 
house, George; mother wants you immediately.” 

They drove, Alice and Maurice, to a log shack 
familiarly known as Maurice’s “shop.” As they 
drew near it a workman coming across the 
fields waved to Maurice. 

“Go in and amuse yourself a moment or so 
while I see what he wants with me,” said Maurice 
as he let Alice get out of the cart at the door of 
the shop. 

A shop it was rightly called, as a matter of 
fact, for Maurice was a great craftsman. By 
one of those happy workings of the law of com¬ 
pensation, his fingers were marvelously skilful, 
making up for the little activity of the poor, lax, 
lower limbs. Maurice had developed in various 


108 


AT SUMMER’S CLOSE 


directions his endowment of active, skilful fingers, 
and the shop bore numerous evidences of this 
fact. Here was a figure modeled in clay. There 
was a cast or so in bronze. There were a few 
things fashioned out of wood, iron, and other 
materials, while on the wall were sundry sketches, 
in number and variety testifying to the taste 
and active deft fingers that apparently kept so 
busy. It was one of those places which one 
occasionally finds in these days of vaunted in¬ 
dividualism—a place really eloquent of person¬ 
ality. Maurice was expressed ubiquitously. It 
was a low broad room, many-windowed, and 
looking out from its best-lighted side upon a 
wide valley and far off to the hills. In such a 
room, with its soft-toned blinds, the world 
looked bright within as it did without. And this 
was characteristic of Maurice’s steady, hopeful 
vision of life. His eyes had that wide, strong 
sight one fancied never could belong to a person 
who lived in narrow rooms or in fettered cir¬ 
cumstances, but rather to one who daily looked 
out upon such a wide view as that beyond and 
around the little shop, and who had found in his 
vision of life itself some balance and proportion as 
the basis for his own existence. Moreover, both 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


109 


room and landscape were significant of the 
beauty and poetry in the youth who had learned 
to find happiness therein and in the beautiful 
things he made with his hands—the outlet for 
that beauty and poetry of spirit, as he lived his 
gentle if active and busy life in the beautiful 
old country-home left to him by his grand¬ 
father, because of his lameness, over and 
above the legacies left to other members of the 
family. 

As Alice wandered about in the little room 
become so familiar to her, looking now at this 
or that interesting thing Maurice had made him¬ 
self or at some pet book or picture or cast done 
by other hands, the spirit of the place and the 
personality of Maurice came over her with perhaps 
a little keener poignancy than usual; partly, 
perhaps, because she was in the room alone, as not 
often happened, partly because the glow now 
deepening over the valley threw its rose across 
the walls and made the place actually more 
lovely with its illumining touch of poetry. The 
fact that she was leaving on the morrow, too, 
made her feel that sensitiveness to details which 
one comprehends the last time one is to be in a 
place, making one wish to fondle this and that 


110 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


familiar thing with which one has become 
intimate. 

As she made these little farewell visits, as it 
were, about the room, where she and George and 
Maurice and the others had spent many happy 
times in the passing summer, she came upon 
some things she had not seen before. On 
Maurice’s tables—he had several whereat he 
worked at various things—she came across 
sketches of herself. She looked at these eagerly, 
seeing that they nearly made a diary in pen and 
pencil of her visit. Here she was on horseback, 
alone, or with George, or with some one else. 
There she was in the cart wherein she had often 
driven around the farm with Maurice. There 
she was down in the skiff on the lake. Or 
there on the grass, or on the porch—dear old 
Maurice, what a facile pencil he had! How 
many of these things he had done! It touched 
her somehow with a singular self-consciousness 
and tenderness; for there was such an evident 
idealizing stroke in every one that, free from 
silly vanities as she was, she was half ashamed 
now of the gratification these undoubtedly 
attractive pictures of a girl gave to her, even 
though the girl was herself. Maurice had evi- 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 111 

dently been making the sketches on all 
occasions. 

As she stood there in her first surprise, and 
self-consciousness, and amusement, and tender¬ 
ness for Maurice at her discovery, her glance 
fell on a covered easel in the corner. She went 
over to it and lifted the cover. There was 
another! There she was on a rather large 
canvas. He had done it in the colors of summer, 
and the inspiration of it came back to her. It 
was the morning she had gone walking alone. 
Just as she had come out of a leafy lane joining 
the road, she had met Maurice and George looking 
for her. Maurice had said, when they dis¬ 
covered her suddenly: 

“My, but you’re a picture! If it weren’t 
for the hat, and if your linen gown were soft, 
flowing stuff, you’d do for a study of the Spirit 
of Summer.” 

“Spirit of Summer be hanged!” George had 
said; “a real girl in a pink dress and that hat is 
better than any of your old visions and spirits, 
Maurice. Make a picture of her so, old man. 
I’ll buy it and reward you handsomely for it.” 

So Maurice had done it evidently. There she 
was in the pink linen gown, the large hat, with 


112 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


the pink ribbons hanging down and held in 
either hand. A very attractive picture, thought 
Alice, if she must say it. She wondered if 
George was going to try to get it. . . . 

Through the window she could see the two 
cousins now. They were so much alike, both 
what is commonly and happily known as “splen¬ 
did fellow T s.” One thought the epithet applicable 
to Maurice, despite his marred physique. Their 
features were much of the same mould, yet, 
notwithstanding George’s health and strength, 
all his physical superiority, there was a boyishness 
about his brow and eyes and mouth. While in 
Maurice’s thinner, more tightly set lips, there was 
a maturer blending of sweetness and strength 
such as is seen in those whose spirit has gained 
head against difficulty. There was a little more 
seriousness in his eyes; they held you a little 
longer than George’s quick, bright glance. 

She stood looking at the two, for George had 
put his horse in the stable and had stopped to 
talk to Maurice a few moments as the latter was 
on his way to the workman. They always con¬ 
sulted with each other about ever so many things, 
and this seemed one of their moments of counsel. 
As George stood beside Maurice Alice’s eyes 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


113 


rested upon him first. And for a while all his 
strength called out to her own vigor. As she 
saw him there, so tall and strong and kind as he 
leaned on the cart, unconsciously she fell to 
thinking of him in a way almost inevitable to a 
happy-hearted young girl whom such a splendid 
youth had assuredly, these last few months, 
done all he could to make even happier than her 
naturally buoyant temperament would have 
made her anyhow. The memory of their ride 
just ended came over her, and life for two such 
strong-bodied young people, the blithe-hearted 
man and woman she and George were, seemed 
just such a fine adventure, just such a test of 
nerve and dash, as they had proved themselves 
equal to when they came gallantly across country 
this afternoon. It took no particular vanity 
on her part to know that George cared for her. 
She could have read his thought aloud in the 
afternoon and it had not been distasteful to her. 
They were, to begin with, such friends! And 
now in this reflection of hers, as she looked on 
him, so tall and strong out there, it seemed 
indeed that her own strength rose greater, and 
she felt all the glow and hope of youth, by which 
life renews itself, for the happy, brave-hearted 


114 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


life they could have together. And Maurice, too, 
she thought, as a movement of his in the cart 
drew her thought to him—one of the lovely 
things was that they could do so much to make 
Maurice happy. George loved him so much and 
so did she. And away went the imagination of 
youth planning what youth could do, what could 
be done for Maurice. Maurice must be brought 
down to the city often, in the winters, for the 
theaters and concerts. He cared so much for 
music, it was a shame he did not hear more. 
For cozy times in their home; he could be made 
so comfortable there. Even here in the country 
there were things she was pining to suggest to 
make him more comfortable—much as his 
mother and sisters loved him and thought for 
him, they did not notice evidently some of the 
things she would have improved. And so 
Alice’s fancy kept devising things for Maurice. 
And yet, somehow, Maurice did not work into the 
picture just exactly. And meantime where was 
George? Alice became aware George had dis¬ 
appeared entirely. And again she tried to 
bring him into the picture. And again she had a 
brief glimpse of herself and George, free-limbed 
and strong, going forth for life’s pleasure, able 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


115 


to run for and grasp the fruits of life. But 
somehow now this picture would not be conjured. 
For instead rose the vision of Maurice unable to 
follow—not that he would try to, or retard their 
ardent pursuit of joy of life or burden them. 
No such course was conceivable for Maurice. 
On the contrary it would be his way, she knew, 
to efface himself; and so while they were in 
town for their gay winters, he would be down 
here alone—that is, without them, without them, 
too, more than he was now. For as things were, 
George was often with him through the winter, 
whereas he would scarcely be able to run up so 
freely if she married him. So it would turn out 
that Maurice would indeed be “in the valley,” 
while she and George rode and climbed the 
heights of the joy of life. 

But they would not so ride and climb I For in 
a flash of insight Alice knew at last that Maurice’s 
happiness, Maurice’s loneliness, had somehow 
come to count with her for so much that it 
could not be put into the background. And 
now all the strength and ardor of her young 
womanhood swayed not to the tall youth out 
there, so capable, so straight and strong and 
attractive, as he stood beside the cart; but 


116 


AT SUMMER’S CLOSE 


swayed rather to that figure in the cart, with 
straight shoulders, too, so straight you would 
think them strong, and would be surprised to see 
the heavy stick across the limbs so out of harmony 
with the set of shoulders. Out of harmony with 
the broad brow and strong jaw and eyes revealing 
a spirit of such strength, self-control, both native 
and developed through suffering and patience 
uncommon to youth, uncommon to the ardent 
animation of youth that often flashed in those 
eyes, the eyes often of an eager boy. This boy 
held her own eyes now, and held her imagination, 
as she thought of him with his brave spirit, 
brave as that of the best of them and braver. 
Maurice cheated out of some of life, maimed, 
isolated by his lameness from so much—the 
young girl hung over it tenderly now as a mother. 
And gradually she knew unquestionably that 
into the fondness she had for both youths, the 
comradeship and admiration, had been added, 
somehow, as regarded Maurice, something more— 
something exquisite, poignant, irresistible, scarce¬ 
ly to be defined by her young imagination; but 
something she felt now elevating and purifying 
her. So the primeval tenderness of womanhood 
(no sentimental pity, however) had its way with 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


117 


her and folded Maurice to her heart. Life in one 
of its elemental workings, its conserving and 
spiritual character, had called to her not to go 
forth and be glad as she had first fancied with 
George, but to stay here in the quiet and peace of 
this lovely country with Maurice; not to the 
glamour she had foreseen with George, but to 
what seemed to vouch for a deeper happiness, 
where to the perfect comradeship would be 
added the poetry and beauty of service and 
tenderness needed and to be given. 

It was an unexpected conclusion to have 
arrived at at the end of these days the three had 
spent in such spontaneous, unquestioning, un¬ 
foreseeing, comradeship of youth. And now, 
having reached such a conclusion, Alice felt 
herself confused. With straightforward, simple 
vision, free from vanity in this case, too, she 
knew Maurice loved her. Yet she knew such 
was his fine pride, his sensitiveness about that 
poor lame limb rendering him unable to give 
such knightly physical service as other men 
could give, she knew, as George did, that he 
would shrink from asking a woman to share a life 
that must have some limitations. 

He was coming across the lawn now, he and 


118 


AT SUMMER’S CLOSE 


George, too. They drove to the door. George 
was helping him out of the cart, she knew. She 
supposed both would come into the shop. But 
in a moment she saw George drive off to the 
stables and heard Maurice coming alone. She 
could hear the beat of his heavy cane upon the 
floor—the symbol of his affliction, it seemed. 
She was still standing by the easel when he came 
in. 

“ Ah, you found it!” said Maurice, immediately. 
“What do you think of it? I think I’ve done 
pretty well,” he continued as he sat down on 
the couch opposite. 

“You can afford to flatter yourself, when 
you've flattered your subject so. It's a beauty!” 
answered Alice, going over and standing behind 
him to get his point of view. 

Maurice sat silent a while looking at it. And 
for a while Alice thought that after all Maurice's 
real and absorbing devotion was for this art 
with which he had lived so much, to which he had 
been seemingly forced by life to turn instead of 
to life at first hand. For so long he had found 
his greatest gratifications in it. It was the 
most personal expression of his heart and mind 
and life, of his love of beauty—in this, at least, he 


ANNA BLANCHE McGILL 


119 


could evidently render efficient service, if he 
had to forego the other activities by which other 
men at once served life and at the same time 
found means for their own self-expression and 
self-satisfaction. 

As he sat there pointing to the tone of this 
color and that, this effect and this other, in 
which he felt he had succeeded, he seemed indeed 
so absorbed that Alice began to feel she was mis¬ 
taken after all. He seemed to have forgotten her. 
And no wonder! Such ardor as this of Maurice’s 
was in truth all a man needed, and indeed it 
seemed more sufficient to him than it seemed to 
other men the things upon which they spent 
their earthly hope and work. 

However, at last, he looked up at her. “Yes, 
you know, I believe that’s the best thing I have 
ever done. . . . Yet, in a way it’s the worst 

thing. For it’s given me occasion to feel meaner 
than I have ever felt before. I’m going to confess 
to you, but you’re not to tell any one. I did it for 
George, you know. But I can’t give it to him 
even if you would let me.” He covered his face 
with his hands a moment. “No, I can’t give 
it to him. You surely know why I can’t! Oh, 
I’m a cad, Alice, a miserable cad! But it’s all I 


120 


AT SUMMER'S CLOSE 


have, and I can’t give it up. I love George so— 
all the generous manhood in my make-up has 
gone into the thing as I painted it. It was 
meant for him from the first, until the last 
minute, this afternoon, when I saw you two on 
the hill-top, and the force of everything came 
over me. George is going to have you, you 
absolutely. And I! I’ve tried to fight this 
down and I thought I had, till now. Heaven 
knows I want you and George to be the happiest 
people on earth—but I must have the picture, at 
least. Oh, say something to me, to keep me 
from feeling such a cad as I am to let this thing 
come out—say I’ve a right at least to the picture.” 
He waited a moment and then: 

“You have not! You must give it to George!” 
said Alice quickly. 

As Maurice looked up, his surprise and her 
answer lifted the veil from all the longing and 
pain he had so long kept hidden. But even now 
only momentarily were they revealed—to be 
dispelled straightway and forever as he read 
Alice’s eyes, while she leaned down and drew 
to her breast that proud head of his. 


The Lady of the Roses 

BY MAUD REGAN 

To me she was more interesting than any of 
her stories, though I carefully refrained from 
any expression of this sentiment through that 
long, golden summer spent in her stately Southern 
mansion, with its broad, vineclad porches, 
and its terraced gardens breaking into a foam 
of roses. 

Such an admission would have troubled her, 
for, the least vain of her sex, she would have 
ignored the personal tribute to seize upon the 
suspected disparagement, her faith in her literary 
attainments being at no time strong. Once 
shaken, there would have been an end to the 
tales which had been welcomed by many mag¬ 
azines whose contents pages were blazoned 
with more ambitious names. There might even 
have been an end of the book to which these 
collected tales had at length given birth, the 
illustration of which had been my initial excuse 

for a visit which, at her hospitable solicitations, 

121 


122 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


I had prolonged through a dreamy, golden 
summer. 

Her home, with its old portraits and rare 
prints and oak-panelled library, on whose crowded 
shelves no novelist more modern than Sir Walter 
found housing, would of itself have tempted 
one to linger, even had its mistress been less 
charming than the little gentlewoman who 
trailed draperies of Quaker gray, and spoke 
with that low, soft half-drawl so charmingly 
characteristic of the old South. 

The house was big and lonely and full of 
“ghosts,” she admitted, but she would not have 
known how to live elsewhere, nor could I have 
pictured her against a different background. 
Her stories were charming of their kind—weird 
bits of African folk-lore caught from slaves 
long dead; strange “voodoo” tales with which 
her mammy had frightened her from childish 
naughtiness; vivid inside glimpses of the gay, 
leisurely existence which the war had abruptly 
ended. And moving and breathing in her 
pages, they lived again, those ghosts with which 
memory peopled the echoing solitude of her 
home. Now they swept by, a whole scarlet- 
coated hunting-field on the trail of “Brier Fox,” 


MAUD REGAN 


123 


now floated airily over gleaming floor to the music 
of black Cato’s fiddle. With swift, sure strokes 
she painted the little world she knew. Before 
another task her pen, perhaps, might have 
drooped and fallen. 

Vivid, joyous, one radiant figure detached 
itself from all the rest, the writer’s sister, Marie, 
younger than she by perhaps six years. I had 
hastily sketched her on the fly-leaf of the “ Spec¬ 
tator,” just beneath the yellowing book-plate, 
impelled to such vandalism by a fear of losing 
the vivid impression evoked by some special 
phase of Alicia Cary’s recital. I had drawn 
her in spreading muslin and garden hat, knee 
deep amid the roses; shown her in the famous 
white and silver brocade worn at the Christmas 
dance when her world had heard of her engage¬ 
ment to a gallant son of the Old Dominion. 
I sketched her once more, looking out from the 
misty whiteness of her bridal veil, deep-eyed 
and lovely, but though I brought to the task 
all there was in me of sympathy and enthusiasm, 
Alicia Cary, so prone to over-estimate the worth 
of my other delineations, proved in this one 
instance captious and critical. 

“Yes, it is the dress, the form,” she would 


124 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


exclaim, in troubled accents, “ but she was much 
lovelier than that—Marie ! ” 

Traces of her lingered in her old home—a 
pair of yellowing satin shoes of incredible slender¬ 
ness, daintily pointed, in an old press, bits of 
music bearing her name in that beautiful, care¬ 
ful writing that has passed along with those 
beautiful, careful manners wherewith it synchro¬ 
nized. 

Bit by bit I learned all there was to know 
of Marie, such intimate details as could never 
be given to a larger public. Perhaps it is because 
we oftenest spoke of her in the long June twilights, 
on the broad porch whence the rose-clad terraces 
descended in glowing parallels, that her very 
name seems to bear with it a breath of roses. 

Marechal Neil, Giant of Battles, Cherokee, 
and other roses, nameless though as sweet, com¬ 
bined to make those June terraces fragrant and 
fair as the gardens of Arabia, though elsewhere 
ragged borders and grass-grown walks were 
eloquent of decay. The survival of the roses 
amid so much of encroaching desolation, Alicia 
explained to me one morning when I found her 
among the bushes, trimming and snipping with 
careful hand. 


MAUD REGAN 


125 


“ Marie was so fond of the roses,” she said 
simply. “This terrace was her favorite play¬ 
ground, and she always had her lessons here 
with me, till father sent her to the Sacre Coeur 
in Paris with the Poston girls. There once had 
been a question of my going, but mother’s death 
made that impossible. 

“Almost since I can remember I have been 
the housekeeper and I have always felt that 
what small talent I possess lies along those 
lines. So when the critics rend my poor little 
tales, you will vouch for the superiority of my 
jellies, will you not ? ” she concluded, brightly. 

A notable housewife she was, flitting from 
well-stocked pantries to fragrant presses, and 
investing each trivial detail of the daily round 
with her own distinctive charm. Lost, like the 
children of the nursery tale, I fancy her steps 
might have been traced by scattered rose petals. 
Spiced and dried to fragrant immortality their 
faint aroma is as inseparable from my memory 
of her as the breath of their gorgeous living 
comrades from my conception of Marie. Their 
perfume lay on fine napery and snowy sheets; 
dried petals clung to lace and linen in the drawers 
of ponderous dressing-tables, drifts of them 


126 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


filled the cracked blue punch bowl, where once 
whole fleets of lemon sailed on steaming amber 
seas. 

That Marie had gone to Paris a mere child 
I already knew, but the details of her life there 
I learned from Alicia on an evening when I came 
upon her among the dim brocades of the high- 
ceiled drawing-room. She was seated before 
a Chippendale secretary, her slender hand 
caressing a packet of yellowing letters, and 
with these frail clues to guide, wandered through 
the labyrinth of old memories, while tender 
smiles lighted up the soft melancholy of her 
face. 

“Even as a child,” she told me, “Marie’s 
personality was singularly sunny and pervasive. 
Naturally, her departure seemed to leave the 
house desolate, though looking back I realize 
it was not lonely, as I understand the word 
nowadays. 

“Father’s friends were constantly riding over 
to chat or dine, or the Maryland cousins coming 
to make us long visits, and never a day passed 
that Captain Garfield did not call with a book 
to read, or a walk to suggest. The war was 
yet undreamed of, so he was only Mr. Garfield 


MAUD REGAN 


127 


then fresh from college, and with the kindest 
eyes and pleasantest manners I have ever known. 
You perhaps have noticed the old Garfield plant¬ 
ation a few miles down the road.” I signified 
my recollection of the great, deserted Colonial 
mansion, with its double file of Lombardy 
poplars that seemed to march along the grass- 
grown driveway toward a pillared porch, fast 
falling to decay. 

“I used often to read him Marie’s letters, 
of which I was very proud,” she continued. 
“She was really the writer of the family. In 
her bright, childish way she made that little 
cloistered world in the Rue de Yarennes so real 
and vivid to me that I seemed to know each 
pupil and Religieuse, and every corner of the 
sunny garden on whose walls the apricots ripened 
for the breakfast table of the Archbishop who 
came to say Mass on great feast-days. I 
should like you to read a letter in which she con¬ 
fesses to the enormity of having scaled that 
wall and rifled it of its last remaining apricots. 

“So irreparable a misfortune occurring on 
the very eve of a day when the Archbishop was 
coming to visit, was loudly bewailed by the 
gardener, grim old Antoine, who clamored loudly 


128 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


for vengeance on the culprit. It was accordingly 
decreed that she must personally present her 
apologies to the injured prelate who, doubtless 
forewarned, entered whimsically into the spirit 
of the occasion.” 

I took the yellowing sheets from Alicia’s 
hand with that curious feeling awakened by the 
perusal of old letters, with their pathetic con¬ 
fidence in the all-importance of a present which 
has long since slipped into the limbo of dead 
yesterdays. The school-girl phrases, with their 
pretty foreign terms, evoked two figures from 
out the shadows, one, a great benign Church¬ 
man, dark-eyed, silvery-haired, and stately; 
the other a little radiant child, whom he loved 
and befriended till her brief, bright days were 
over. 

“Imagine to yourself, Alicia,” she wrote, 
“the shame of such an admission from a young 
girl bien-elev6e! What would Mme. de Main- 
tenon have said had one of the pupils at St. 
Cyr been guilty of a similar indiscretion? All 
night I lay awake trying to frame the words 
which would accuse me to the good Archbishop. 
For the first time in my life I was glad to be 
obliged to speak in French, though I feared I 


MAUD REGAN 


129 


should never get beyond ‘Me, void, M.VArch- 
eveque,’ without bursting into tears. 

“But, Alicia, it was not so dreadful after all, 
though I trembled just at first when I saw him 
standing so tall and silver-haired and stately. 
His eyes are very dark and piercing, but when 
one looks well, one sees there is a laugh at the 
very back of them. After I had made my curtsey 
and kissed his great amethyst ring he said with 
a smile: 

“‘Well, little one, were the apricots good?’ 
After a second’s reflection I answered, ‘They 
were just for the moment, M. PArcheveque, 
but I was sorry as soon as I had eaten them/ 

“Then he said very gently, ‘It is so with all 
the wrong things in life, fillette ;—will you try 
to remember ? 1 

“When I promised very earnestly to try, 
he said, with that wonderful, flashing smile of 
his, 1 Bien! That is worth many apricots/ 
Then we fell to talking of many things; of America; 
of you; and the apricots were not even mentioned, 
till just when I was leaving he enquired gravely 
‘whether it was a custom of little American 
girls to climb fences.’ Very much mortified 
I replied that even I had never been guilty of 


130 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


such an action till yesterday, when it being a 
holiday, I had been perhaps tempted by le diable 
des grandes fetes, against whom our mistresses 
had warned us. 

“I left him smiling very much, and murmur¬ 
ing something about le diable des grandes fetes 
of whom, perhaps, he had never heard.” 

“As Marie grew older,” continued Miss Alicia, 
“she often spoke of singing in the chapel, but 
it was from the Reverend Mother we heard 
that the professor from the Conservatoire who 
came twice a week for her lessons, considered 
her voice to be of marvelous promise. She did 
not return to America immediately after her 
graduation. There were some school-friends she 
had promised to visit in that historic chateau 
on the Loire of which she wrote us such charming 
descriptions, and afterward their mother, the 
Marquise de C., kindly accompanied her to 
Paris, interesting herself in the selection of all 
the frocks father insisted she should have before 
returning home. She referred jestingly to these 
fineries in the last letter she wrote me before 
sailing. 

“‘Me void, Alicia, in a perfect whirl of pomps 


MAUD REGAN 


131 


and vanities, my head full of “chiffons” and 
other frivolities without which, it seems, one 
can not be properly introduced to that strange 
country known in convent parlance as “the 
world.” I do not fear it, since for me it only 
means you and father, waiting for me in the 
old home for which I have longed through each 
day of exile.’ 

“That the years had greatly enhanced Marie’s 
beauty I already knew, and as the time for her 
return drew near I was constantly speculating 
as to the other changes absence might have 
wrought in our little girl. Mr. Garfield laugh¬ 
ingly resented my absorption in this one theme. 
‘I am beginning already to be jealous of Marie. 
You will have no time for me at all, once she 
is home.’ But it was quite the other way. He 
had eyes for none but her, from that first morn¬ 
ing that he came upon her, just as you 
have painted her, in her sprigged muslin and 
garden hat standing on the terrace. 

“ 1 Your sister has made me feel as though I have 
always known you,’ he said when the first greet¬ 
ings were over, ‘ but somehow you are very dif¬ 
ferent from my mental picture of you,’ and his 
eyes looked the tribute his lips dared not utter. 


132 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


“‘No one could be so good as Alicia paints 
her/ Marie answered with grave directness, 
and then I left them. 

“When Marie came to me later in the library 
her cheeks were very pink, and she was twisting 
a rose between her slender fingers. 

“ ‘Do you know, dear, I rather like this Mon¬ 
sieur Garfield?’ she said. ‘He isn’t a lover, is 
he, Alicia ? ’ 

“‘What an idea, child!’ I answered, for 
till that moment the thought had never occurred 
to me, and I found it vaguely disquieting. 

“ ‘Thenit is only an idea, dear?’ she persisted, 
gaily tossing me her rose, which fell at my feet 
in a shower of crimson petals. 

“ I stooped mechanically to gather them and 
dropped them one by one into the rose bowl 
yonder, reflecting the while over Marie’s words. 

* * Sjc * 

“Of course she was a success. Every one loved 
her, and the house was always filled with her 
friends. It seemed to me that half the young 
men in the country were her suitors before her 
first ball. Afterward it was hopeless because of 
her engagement to Mr. Garfield. I shall never 
forget her that night, all in white and silver, 


MAUD REGAN 


133 


standing between father and me, and greeting 
our guests over an arm full of crimson roses. 
It all seemed part of a dream—the music, the 
laughter, the flowers, and Marie floating every¬ 
where like a radiant butterfly among pale moths. 

“They were dancing the Sir Roger de Coverly 
when every one learned her secret. She was 
drifting down between the lines of dancers to 
meet Mr. Garfield, with pink cheeks and spark¬ 
ling eyes and her head held high in that stately, 
unconscious poise so characteristic of her, when 
Uncle Robert whispered something to black 
Cato. Immediately his bow swept out the first 
chords of the wedding march. There was a 
ripple of laughter and Marie stood still, blushing 
and lovely. 

“ ‘ Why, who guessed ?' she said, thoughtlessly, 
and every one swept around her, rallying, con¬ 
gratulating, while Mr. Garfield proudly took his 
place at her side. How happy she was! All 
her life she had been such a simple, joyous, lov¬ 
ing creature, loving passionately music, flowers, 
and sunshine, and all bright things with which 
she seemed akin. Dark shapes of evil passed 
her by with averted faces. 

“ ‘Do you know what it means—“the joy of 


134 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


living/' Alicia?' she asked one day. ‘It is a 
phrase one often hears in France.' And then, 
without waiting for an answer, she continued. 
‘I think it is to “serve the Lord with gladness." 
He is not pleased with gloomy faces, le bon 
Dieu. } 

“All day long she flitted singing through the 
house, gay little songs she had brought with 
her from France. I have not spoken much of 
that wonderful voice which would have made 
her famous had it not then been rare for gentle¬ 
women to appeal to larger audiences than those 
of their friendly home circle—it was a rich 
contralto of wonderful sympathy holding what 
the French would call ‘the gift of tears.' But 
I remember the last time I heard it, on the eve 
of her wedding day, when we had stolen an hour 
apart from all the guests with whom the house 
overflowed. There was so much to be said and 
yet a sort of dumbness seemed to possess us 
both, perhaps, because we dared not trust our¬ 
selves to speak. 

“Marie referred to our first talk of Mr. Gar¬ 
field. 

“ ‘ Only fancy my thinking he was your lover, 
ch^rieT she said, fondly. 


MAUD REGAN 


135 


“‘What an idea!’ I said again. 

“ ‘Yes, I was very stupid; but you do like 
Gerald, don’t you?’ she continued shyly. 

“‘I must like him very much to like him at 
all when he is robbing me of the dearest thing 
in all my world/ I answered. Perhaps that 
she might not seem to see the tears which had 
started to my eyes, Marie crossed to the mantel 
and busied herself with a tall vase of crimson 
roses while she fell to singing softly some haunt¬ 
ing, plaintive air set to French words: ‘Rose ce 
soir, demain fletrie.’ 

“Suddenly she broke off with a little shudder. 
‘What a gloomy little song/ she said. ‘I don’t 
know what suggested it. Of course my roses 
must never wither.’ Then she flew to my side 
and cast herself in my arms as she had been wont 
to do in her childish griefs, crying softly: ‘ You 
have been everything in this world to me! How 
shall I ever leave you, Alicia, Alicia?’ 

“It is almost my last memory of Marie, for 
the next day is just a confused blur, from which 
one picture of her stands out, leaning from the 
doorway of the lumbering coach, an April bride, 
all smiles and tears, to send me her last greeting. 
Gerald had been appointed to the diplomatic 


136 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


service in Paris, and although the American 
colony was yet in its infancy, Marie had immediate 
welcome from a charming circle of compatriots 
and former school friends. Even the stately 
Archbishop, who maintained through the years 
a fatherly interest in the little culprit who had 
stolen trembling to his door, might sometimes have 
been met in her delightful apartments, chatting 
and laughing with the unrestrained gayety of 
a child. To her youthful eyes he had always 
seemed so venerable a figure, it is strange to 
think that it was from him I learned the very 
last there was to know of Marie. 

“Among the friends of whom she had written 
me, was Arthur Colvert, a little American boy 
with whom she was wont to beguile the long 
hours when Gerald was occupied at the embassy. 
So much of the child survived in Marie that 
she could bring to childhood’s plays and plans 
a zest which often failed her for more elaborate 
and artificial amusements, and so her friend¬ 
ship with Arthur grew apace. Together they 
had famous American romps, or played those 
equally diverting French games, which were 
memories from the old life in the Rue de Yarennes 
* Promenons-nous dans les boisf or ‘On the bridge 


MAUD REGAN 


137 


at Avignon where everybody passes.' All one's 
acquaintances may be represented as passing 
across the bridge, and the mimicry of their gait 
and manner offers quite unlimited scope for 
one's histrionic talents. 

“ ‘Ah, cherie!’ said Marie, ‘how many times 
you pass across that bridge for Arthur's delecta¬ 
tion. He will pipe, in that shrill little treble, 
“Mademoiselle Cary , marche comme ga,” and 
I am off with my sweetest smile, treading my 
lightest, and looking as much like my dear, quiet, 
gray mouse as is possible for one of my command¬ 
ing stature." Her last letter told a different 
tale. 

“ ‘To-day it is all dark and lonely on the bridge 
of Avignon. Never a soul goes by, for little 
Arthur is ill. All day I have been sitting in his 
darkened room—perhaps that is why I feel odd 
and depressed, or it may just be an extra longing 
for you, cherie!’ 

“But her depression was not, as she fancied, 
a passing phase, for the child's illness had been 
diphtheria of a virulent type, and the doctor's 
warning to Marie came too late. When, a week 
later, Gerald was warned of the probable term¬ 
ination of her illness, he sent for the good Arch- 


138 


THE LADY OF THE ROSES 


bishop, to whom she turned with childlike con¬ 
fidence in all that alien land. The letter he 
wrote me when all was ended lies here with 
hers that tells of their first meeting. 

“She greeted him with her own bright smile 
of gratitude and welcome. ‘They tell me le bon 
Dieu has sent for me, M. l’Archev£que. Bienl 
I am not afraid to go/ she said, weakly. ‘ I was 
only frightened once, long ago, that day I was 
waiting to go to you in the convent parlor. 
Even that was a mistake, for they had not told 
me half how kind and gentle you were. And 
I know it must be the same with le bon Dieu . 
One has nothing to fear from Him—when one 
is really sorry.” 

“Just before he left her—for the last time— 
she recalled to his mind a little incident of their 
meeting. ‘I have so often heard you in Notre 
Dame, M. TArcheveque, but somehow I remember 
best the little sermon you preached just for me, 
in the convent parlor, when I found the after¬ 
taste of the stolen apricots so bitter. “It is 
like that with all the wrong things in life, fillette,” 
I have always tried to remember/ 

“Curiously enough, the great Churchman's 
last words of Marie bore out my ow T n association 


MAUD REGAN 


139 


of her with roses. * Rose elle a vegu ce que vivent 
les roses, Vespace d’un matin ! 7 which means 
that such frail, perfect things as roses have at 
best but a brief bright morn to bloom. 

And yet their fragrance lingers! 








Stephen Oxenham’s 
Mistake 

BY MAGDALEN ROCK 

“So the old man’s dead, they tell me.” Pat 
Delany removed a short black pipe from his 
mouth to make the statement. 

“Ay, he’s dead, God rest him!” Mrs. Delany 
answered. She had been busy in the attic 
overhead for a couple of hours, performing the 
last offices for the dead, and was a bit dispirited, 
and as a sequence, irritated. “ To see Miss Stan¬ 
hope, the creature, you’d think he had been 
the best father in the world instead of a —” 

“There, there, Bridget, you needn’t call the 
dead names,” Pat interposed. “The Captain 
had his faults like the rest of us.” 

“Oh, ay, that’s sure, like the rest of you,” 
Bridget made the amendment as she looked 
round the sparsely furnished but clean apart¬ 
ment. “If you were any good, Pat Delany, 
you’d have a drop of water on the boil, so that 

one could get a mouthful of tea.” 

141 


142 STEPHEN OXENHAM’S MISTAKE 

Pat started, and apologized. 

“I never thought. I was reading a bit of 
a newspaper.” 

“I’ll warrant!” Bridget remarked, and applied 
a pair of bellows to a few pieces of coal. When 
the flames sprang up she placed a tiny kettle 
on the grate and turned to her husband. 

“She hasn’t the money to bury him.” 

“There’s the Union Workhouse—” Pat began. 
Bridget interrupted him shrilly. 

“Is it her? Sure Beatrix Stanhope is a lady 
born and bred. I wonder at you, Pat.” 

Poor Pat rubbed his head. He and his wife 
were Irish and Catholic, and different in every 
way from the majority of the inhabitants of 
Fuller’s Court. But Pat had been hurt at the 
Docks three or four years before, receiving an 
injury that left him incapable of doing anything 
save light jobs—and at times incapable of any 
exertion whatever—so that the pair found it 
difficult now and then to make ends meet. 

“I wish we had a pound or two to lend her!” 
Pat said. 

“As well wish for the moon. And Miss Stan¬ 
hope has parted with everything of any worth. 
You see, she had to attend him, since he’s been 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


143 


sick, and couldn’t work. Then the doctor's 
bill and medicine amounted t© something.” 

Pat sighed. He had some knowledge of the 
expenses of sickness. 

“Poor old chap!” he said, “Poor old Captain!” 

“And he was a captain really?” 

“He was a military man, anyway. He was 
at Balaklava. Many a time, when Miss Stanhope 
was out with her work at the shops, he’d come 
down and chat a bit. You’d be out, too, Bridget. 
It was the time my leg was bad. Oh, ay, he 
could talk on and on about the Crimea.” 

“I’m thinking he did something—wrong,” 
Bridget lowered her voice. “Oh I don’t mean 
taking the drop of drink and that! But when 
he was wandering in his mind he used to keep 
saying he meant to lift the note or bill. And he 
talked of Dartmouth. Isn’t it a prison?” 

Pat nodded. Perhaps he had suspected that 
Captain Stanhope had something shady in his 
past. 

“He’s dead, anyway,” he said solemnly. 
“What will Miss Stanhope do?” 

“I wanted her to come down,” Bridget said, 
“but she wouldn’t. By-and by I’ll take her up 
a cup of tea.” 


144 


STEPHEN OXENHAM’S MISTAKE 


“Do,” Pat counselled, “but about the money 
for burying the Captain?” 

“We can’t do anything,” Bridget responded, 
with a sharpness due to her inability to assist 
her neighbor. “We haven’t the money and 
we can’t steal it. As for borrowing—there’s 
three weeks’ rent due and something to the 
grocer.” 

“I know,” Pat’s wits moved slowly, “but I 
saw Mr. Oxenham in London to-day, I used 
to work at Oxenham Hall, long before we were 
married.” 

“Well?” 

“I think he’d lend me a pound or two. He 
was only Master Stephen then, but he was a 
kindly young gentleman.” 

“He’ll have forgotten you and all about you,” 
Bridget surmised. 

“No—he knew me,” Pat went on, “and asked 
how I was. His father died long ago, and he 
met with some disappointment and was away 
in foreign parts.” 

“What kind of disappointment?” 

“He was about to get married. I only heard 
of it all after I left Oxenham Hall. I met one 
of the men that used to be about the place, in 



MAGDALEN ROCK 


145 


London. He said that he understood Mr. Oxen- 
ham was very fond of the young lady, though 
she was poor. The wedding-day was fixed and 
all when she ran away with some one else. That 
was why Mr. Oxenham went abroad to shoot 
bears and tigers and the like. ,, 

“And you think he would lend you two or 
three pounds?” 

“I think so. The worst of it is he’ll want to 
give me the money, likely, not lend it.” 

“You mustn’t take it in that way, Pat, you 
must not,” Bridget insisted. “Just explain to 
him that Miss Stanhope is a lady and poor and 
friendless, and that he’ll be paid back. If he’s 
the gentleman you say, he’ll lend it, not give it. 
Do you know where Mr. Oxenham is stopping?” 

“ In the Langham Hotel. He was parting from 
some one he knew, and he said he’d be at the 
Langham till Thursday. Then he’s going abroad 
again.” 

“Hasn’t he forgotten the lady that ran away 
then?” 

“Not that I know. We only had a word. I 
was carrying a parcel to the club and we met 
on the steps,” said Pat. 

Bridget considered. 


146 STEPHEN OXENHAM’S MISTAKE 


“Well, I suppose you had better see the gentle¬ 
man. We must try and help the poor creature 
above whatever way we can.” 

“And I should not like the Captain to have 
a pauper’s burying,” Pat said, and then he smiled 
retrospectively. “Sure, many’s the chat we had 
when you were out charing, Bridget. I never 
mentioned it before.” 

“Well, you had better set out now, Pat. You’ll 
maybe catch the gentleman at dinner,” Bridget 
advised, “and I’ll bring a cup of tea up to 
Miss Stanhope. I was noticing how many gray 
hairs were showing in her beautiful brown locks.” 

“She’s close on ten years in Fuller’s Court,” 
Pat remarked, as he donned an outside coat 
and his hat. A few minutes later he was hasten¬ 
ing westward. It was close on the dinner hour 
when he stepped into the Langham, and asked 
for Mr. Oxenham. There was a brief delay, 
but at length Pat was ushered into the gentle¬ 
man’s private apartment. Mr. Oxenham was 
dressed for dinner, and seemed somewhat sur¬ 
prised at Pat’s entrance. 

“You want?” Stephen Oxenham began, and 
paused. “Oh, I see you are not the person 
I thought. You’re Pat Delany.” 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


147 


“Just me, sir,” Pat admitted, “and I have 
come to beg a great favor of you. I want you 
to lend me a pound or two, sir. And it is the 
loan of it I want, nothing else, if you please.” 

“Oh, you can have the money, Pat, and as 
for repaying it, don’t trouble. You—” Stephen 
was interrupted. 

“The wife would never forgive me, sir, if I 
did anything else than borrow it. It isn’t for 
ourselves at all—only that we will pay it. It is 
for Miss Stanhope. She is a lady, sir, and poor. 
She lives in the attic above Bridget and me, 
and—” 

“Stanhope! Stanhope!” Stephen repeated. 

“Do you know the name, sir? She’s Miss 
Beatrix Stanhope, and the nicest and kindest- 
spoken lady you’d meet, for all her grief and 
bother.” 

“Beatrix Stanhope! Are you certain?” 

“To be sure I am, sir. Hasn’t herself and 
the Captain lived in Fuller’s Court for nigh ten 
years, as I was saying to Bridget this very day?” 

“The Captain! What Captain?” Stephen 
Oxenham was pale under his tan. 

“Why, her father, of course. He called him¬ 
self Captain, and I think he was one. Anyway 


148 STEPHEN OXENHAM'S MISTAKE 


he was all through the Crimean War, and now 
he’s dead and there isn’t a sixpence to bury him. 
We—Bridget and me—can’t bear the thought of 
the parish authorities burying the old man—he 
wouldn’t have liked it. What did you say, sir?” 

“Nothing, nothing! Look here, Pat, I’m going 
back with you. We’ll go at once.” 

“Well and good, sir,” Pat answered, and in a 
few seconds Mr. Oxenham was ready to accompany 
his visitor. A cab was called, and for the first 
few minutes no word was spoken. Then Stephen 
spoke. 

“I think I know Miss Stanhope,” he said 
hoarsely, “and I have perhaps, made a mistake. 
A horrible mistake!” The man groaned, and Pat 
marvelled. 

“We all make mistakes,” he said consolingly. 

“Not like mine, not like mine!” Stephen 
repeated. “That is, if things are as I begin to 
suspect.” 

“Maybe you’d better come into our place, 
sir,” Pat whispered as he and his companion 
ascended the rickety stairs, “and Bridget would 
prepare Miss Stanhope for a visitor. No one 
came to see her in that way—just the priest 
and doctor.” 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


149 


Stephen Oxenham assented, and Bridget, rising 
from her work of repairing a coat belonging to 
her husband, regarded the tall, bronzed stranger 
inquiringly. 

“He wishes to see Miss Stanhope/' she said 
doubtfully. “She isn't in a fit condition, poor 
thing, to see a stranger." 

“I'm not a stranger." Stephen seized the 
Irishwoman's toilworn hand. “I am one who 
loved her well, and I fear, wronged her deeply." 

“Women are forgiving," Bridget remarked, “and 
I don't mislike your looks, sir. Come with me." 

A few more shaking steps were ascended, and 
Bridget, after a warning cough and much fumb¬ 
ling with the handle of the door, led the way into 
a small apartment. A woman lifted her pale 
face from the table before her, and Stephen gave 
a low cry. 

“Beatrix! Oh, Beatrix!" 

“It is Mr. Oxenham, dearie," Bridget took hold 
of the woman’s shaking fingers, “ and an old friend, 
honey. Pat told him of your father's death." 

“Your father, Beatrix! I never knew your 
father lived!" Bridget slipped from the room 
as Stephen spoke. 

“Did you not? I thought that was why you 


150 STEPHEN OXENHAM'S MISTAKE 

gave me up—because my father was a convict, 
I mean. He had been in prison for forging 
a friend’s name to a bill,” Miss Stanhope said. 

“Oh, Beatrix, could you think so meanly 
of me!” Stephen cried. 

“Oh, no—it was the natural thing to do, I 
suppose. I had not known of my father—I 
thought he was dead. Aunt Lucy never told 
me. Then, at her death, I found out, and 
my father was released about that time. I met 
him, and then I had your letter saying you knew 
all. But I did not know. I should, of course, 
have told you if I had.” Beatrix Stanhope 
spoke dully, mechanically, as if the matter she 
discussed was quite impersonal. 

“ I never knew about your father till to-day,” 
Stephen said, “I wish I had!” 

“Then why did you write as you did? I was 
glad to get away from North Allerton. Aunt 
Lucy’s income died with her. There was no 
reason why I should remain. We—my father 
and I—came to London, and here we have been 
since. Now he is dead—in that room.” 

Stephen Oxenham crossed the threshold of 
the tiny chamber where Captain Stanhope lay. 
Mrs. Delany had draped the bed Irish fashion 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


151 


with white sheets and the dead man had regained 
in death something of that beauty of face that 
had won many hearts in the early fifties, and 
Stephen Oxenham, kneeling by the narrow bed, 
remembered hearing that Beatrix Stanhope's 
father had been a handsome man and gallant 
soldier in his day. 

“The affair of the forgery had been hushed 
up," Beatrix said, when Stephen rejoined her. 
“It—the trial and all—took place in the west 
of England, and wasn't reported save in a small 
local paper. So my father told me. It was 
possible for Aunt Lucy to take me to her home 
in the north without any one knowing. It was 
a momentary yielding to a sudden temptation, 
and he suffered for it." Beatrix covered her 
face with her thin hands. 

“You must come away—from this," Stephen 
looked around the poverty-stricken room. “And 
Beatrice, you will marry me soon." 

“Marry you!" A hot wave of red flushed 
the woman's face. “Marry you! Now, when 
he is dead! No—I am still his daughter." 

“But, Beatrix, it was never that. It was not 
because you were Captain Stanhope's daughter 
that I wrote as I did. I will make you angry, 


152 STEPHEN OXENHAM’S MISTAKE 


but it was not that. It would not have mattered 
whose daughter you were.” Stephen drew a 
step nearer the chair where Beatrix sat. 

“Then why—” 

“Because I was a fool, a mad, jealous fool, 
who loved you.” Stephen paused. “Because 
I thought your father, the man you met in secret, 
was your lover. Can you forgive me?” 

“You thought that! Oh, Stephen!” 

“There was an excuse, a wretched excuse. 
I did not know you had a relative in the world, 
and I saw you slip out to meet him. Beatrix, 
you must forgive me. You must come away 
from this.” 

So when the poor, erring Captain was laid to 
rest in a city cemetery, Stephen Oxenham had 
his way. Miss Stanhope, accompanied by Mrs. 
Delany and Pat, went to a quiet fishing village 
on the south coast where Stephen owned a small 
cottage, and in that village a couple of months 
later she and Stephen were quietly married with 
Pat and Bridget for witnesses. 

The good-hearted couple have a snug farm, 
well-stocked and in good order, close to Oxenham 
Hall. It was Stephen’s gift on his wedding-day 
to the kindly Irish pair. 


The Light Fantastic 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART 

It is curious how often a man is cast in a comedy 
mold when he is destined to play in life a tragic or 
pathetic role. 

Take, for an instance, Jim Drake. There never 
was a better fellow, but there have been hundreds 
of thousands of better-looking ones—in fact we 
used to think that almost all of the other men in 
creation were better-looking. It was not so much 
that Jim was plain, though that may be freely 
admitted, but that his face was funny. It was the 
kind of face that would make a man's fortune as a 
comedian, supplying or supplementing deficiencies 
in talent. Jim's face would have gone all right 
if he had not been so serious ; it was the com¬ 
bination of his farce-comedy look with his 
gravity and earnestness that handicapped Jim. 
People expected to be amused by him the instant 
they set eyes upon him, and when he proved to be 
anything rather than an amusing chap, why, 
he amused them all the more. 

This was only when you first knew him, or, 
153 


154 


THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 


more correctly, did not know him at all. If 
Jim honored you with his friendship you forgot all 
about his face, or, rather you saw only the kind¬ 
ness, the goodness of his light-blue eyes, and the 
sweetness of expression around his somewhat 
wide mouth with its upcurved lips. 

There never was a better fellow, as I said before. 
All of the boys loved him, and it would no more 
occur to one of us to doubt a statement of Jim’s 
than it would to doubt a ray of sunshine coming 
through a stained glass window in church. In 
fact that is a better illustration of what Jim was 
like than I knew it was going to be when I 
stumbled upon it. He had the calm solemnity of 
the stained glass window, combined with the 
sunshine, to perfection. Always pleasant, kindly, 
even-tempered, conscientious to a needle’s point, 
ready to do anything for anybody, upright, 
industrious, more the plodder than the soarer, 
faithfully loyal to his convictions, religious, 
political, or personal, it would have been hard to 
find a better example of the just man to whom 
the Psalmist alludes—with reason—as rare, but, 
when found, everlastingly to be remembered. 
And there isn’t one of his mates that will ever for¬ 
get good old Jim. 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


155 


In spite of all this, as may be easily seen, Jim, 
with his comical face and his sober qualities was 
not a person to cut a broad swath, to make 
much noise in the world. The average person 
would pass over Jim in a crowd for more brilliant, 
more showy fellows not worth the tin tip off 
Jim's shoe-lacing. This did not worry Jim one 
bit. He had his friends, and the rest of the 
world could roll as it would, for all he cared. 
Sometimes we did think, though, that Jim would 
rather not have been relegated to conversation 
with old fogies when we all went out anywhere. 
It seemed to be taken for granted that Jim 
wanted to talk politics, or reform, or business 
with the fathers, while we other boys talked 
nonsense with the daughters. But even that did 
not keep Jim awake nights. He took everything 
that came his way goodnaturedly, and girls were 
to him of little more importance than their 
names. Jim was built to worry about a girl, 
but not about girls. 

It struck us all as the best of good jokes when 
Jim came in that night, burst in, with the story 
of how he had played the hero in the most ap¬ 
proved, old-school novel fashion. We all—we 
four chums— boarded together, and confidences 


156 


THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 


between us played puss-puss-in-the-corner, ex¬ 
changing between the four in a square, as well as 
on the square. An adventure kept to himself by 
one of us would have been regarded as treason by 
the other three. I liked to believe that I had 
Jim’s inner confidence more than the other two, 
that he told me those things that can never 
make a story, the events of the soul and heart, 
chiefly remarkable, often because they do not 
occur. 

Well, Jim came in with a burst that seemed the 
more bursting because it was not his way to get 
up an excitement. He was excited this time, all 
right, as almost any boy of twenty-five would be 
who had just stopped a runaway horse, and saved 
the life of “the prettiest girl the sun ever shone 
upon”—thus Jim, the unimpressionable—who 
literally fell into his arms as he caught her, 
swooning, from the slipping saddle! 

We all rose up and yelled, till the old gentleman 
in the next room to ours—one of those deaf 
people whose hearing is so acute—rapped on the 
wall with his cane. The ferule on that cane 
must have needed frequent renewals! 

“Now, Jim,” I said, “it is up to you not to 
disappoint us. You know, all novel readers 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


157 


know, whafc this preludes. You must call on 
her.” 

“To-night,” said Jim unexpectedly, but as 
gravely as ever. “She gave me her card. I 
shall go to-night to inquire for her, how she finds 
herself after the shock, and all that. Perhaps 
to-morrow night I shall send her flowers— 
violets. And the night after that I shall go 
again to inquire. She is the most beautiful 
creature on earth.” 

We were rather stunned by this announcement 
of his platform on Jim’s part, but we knew him 
well enough to be perfectly sure that he would 
carry out his programme—as he did. 

For several weeks we saw Jim only when he was 
forced to stay with us. On every pretext, and 
none, he was going to see the beautiful, “the 
most beautiful girl in the world,” who had been so 
dramatically thrown into his dull orbit. We 
began, after a time, to take the whole thing as 
seriously as Jim did. There was no other way 
to take it, for it was a serious matter for the dear 
old chap. He was head over ears in love, and 
that to Jim meant a life sentence, we believed. 

From what he told us of her—and he was 
ready to talk at any hour of the day or night, 


158 


THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 


and all night of her—we came to know her as well 
as Jim himself did, rather better, in fact, for we 
took his stories and edited them with our superior, 
because unbiased, wisdom, and we got to be 
pretty well alarmed for our old Jim’s happiness. 
We were sure that he had set his simple and loyal 
heart on a girl who cared more for society, her 
ambitions, and a good time, than for anything 
that Jim could offer her, including his rare self. 
We squirmed when we saw him so certain, so 
confident that his romance was going to end in 
the proper way for all romances to end, for we 
were equally sure that this pretty and capti¬ 
vating butterfly was playing with single-hearted 
Jim. 

We knew—we should have known if he had not 
said so—that Jim was only waiting until he had 
allowed her time enough to love him to ask her to 
marry him, and we dreaded the day. We knew 
that Jim would never take to vice if the blow that 
would be harder to him than to most men fell 
upon him. We knew that he would go on in his 
steady way, “going to his duties” regularly, as he 
had promised his mother when he left home, but 
Jim had no more ambition than he needed by 
nature, and—well, there is such a thing as 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


159 


crippling a man, if his heart can’t be broken, on 
which point wiseacres differ. 

However, when the girl refused Jim, as she did 
when he asked her to marry him, he returned to us 
less wrecked than we had expected. He was 
cast down enough, in all conscience, and he 
looked as if he was just getting up from typhoid, 
but he was not despairing. And this was because 
the witch had laughed at him, though Jim could 
not see it. 

“She says that she will never marry a man who 
can’t waltz,” Jim said, his elbows on his knees, his 
wistful, droll face in his hands. “She was merry, 
and turned me down with a light touch, boys, to 
spare me. She said that her husband must not 
only know how to bear reverses, but must know 
how to reverse. She said she must marry a man 
who was ornamental. She didn’t mind solidity 
in her ornaments, she said—she has the prettiest 
way of dimpling to underscore her remarks—have 
I ever told you?” 

“Had he!”—we groaned in trio. 

Jim did not mind teasing; he must have seen 
that we were sympathetic. He went on in his 
melancholy voice: “She said that social graces 
were an indispensable requirement in the man she 


160 


THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 


married. She was ever so much obliged to me for 
saving her life, but no man would claim anything 
from her on that ground. She knew that was 
farthest from my thoughts; I had already told her 
so. But she could never love one who did not 
waltz well, so there was nothing for it but to be 
my sister. Boys,” added Jim in another voice, 
sitting erect in his determination to annihilate 
the barriers between him and his love, “boys, 
you know I always despised dancing, and I do it 
badly enough, but I’m going to learn to waltz, 
and waltz well, if the sky falls. Which is the 
best school, in your opinion ?” 

“Did you tell her your resolution? Did she 
say she would consider your application for the 
post if you learned to waltz, Jim?” I asked with 
difficulty, stopping short of running on into, 
“You credulous infant!” 

“She said,” replied Jim slowly, “that it was 
the only thing that would give me a chance with 
her. Yes, I told her.” 

We all exchanged glances of amused commiser¬ 
ation. The whole thing was so absurd that it 
would have been funny had the chief actor been 
another than Jim. To learn to waltz to win a 
girl! Not to see that she was playing with him, 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


161 


she who was unmistakably playing with every¬ 
thing in life, with life itself just now—poor old 
Jim! 

But Jim held to his purpose as Jim always did. 
We discussed the claims of rival dancing-schools, 
and Jim entered the one that got the majority of 
our votes. It was the most pitifully ludicrous 
sight to see Jim, who was a big creature, with 
his serio-comic face set and stiffened with anxiety 
as he painstakingly counted: “One, two, three,” 
and moved his feet: “forward, to the side, 
together.” It didn’t seem to any of us that he 
was going to accomplish his task—he was too 
seriously in earnest, too anxious about it. Hal— 
one of our four—said that he had never been 
able to understand how King David’s dancing 
before the Ark could have had a religious effect, 
but that now he did understand it—and Hal 
was not joking when he said it. There really was 
something sacrificially solemn in Jim’s whole 
bearing as he strove to acquire the waltz, and 
when one remembered that his ponderous efforts 
came from his desire to win the woman he loved, 
that to gratify the light-minded girl who must 
have laughed at him when she held out the 
whimsical condition which our poor Jim took so 


162 


THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 


earnestly, the humor of it was swallowed up in the 
sacrificial aspect with Jim as the victim. 

“For the love of mercy, man, don’t count so 
conscientiously!” protested Hal as Jim came over 
to us where we loyally supported him during his 
lessons. “You have learned the steps. Now 
forget your feet, and listen to the music. Lean 
on the waltz, Jim, and not on mathematical 
accuracy, if you want to get there with the light 
fantastic.” 

“All right, Hal, I’ll try,” said Jim meekly, and 
went back again to practice waltzing like a 
Gothic cathedral, with his tense face and its look 
of determination. 

Hal groaned. “It’s the light fantastic for Jim, 
all right,” he said. “It’s a regular will-o’-the- 
wisp light, leading him nowhere but to disappoint¬ 
ment.” 

In the meantime we three chums of Jim’s got an 
introduction to the girl without his knowledge. 
We found her pretty, prettier than he said, but 
we found her fashionable, a butterfly, and as 
coquettish as a kitten. She confirmed our worst 
fears, but we talked to her about Jim, not betraying 
that we knew of their acquaintance. We told her 
about Jim’s learning to waltz, and we didn’t 


MARION AMES TAOGART 


163 


make it funny. We tried to make her see it as it 
was to him, a serious effort to comply with 
conditions laid down by a girl who would marry 
him when he had gratified her whim—we tried to 
convey our sense of certainty that it was a 
girlish whim, but that his reward was guaranteed. 
We never knew how successful we were in con¬ 
veying a certainty of that of which we were 
more than uncertain. 

The girl listened to the story and laughed over 
it. “It strikes me as funny,” she said, not 
betraying the slightest self-consciousness—you 
never would have guessed that she knew the girl. 
‘ ‘ I hope your friend is not going to take it hard. 
No girl would impose such a ridiculous condition 
as learning to waltz to her acceptance of a man 
whom she loved. It looks rather black for this 
Jim of yours.” 

We thought so, too, and it worried us. It was 
not long after this that Jim felt that he had done 
all that was in him toward mastering the art for 
which nature had not attuned him. He had 
learned the technique of waltzing, but that is as 
far from really waltzing as any technique is 
from the art of which it is the framework. Jim 
waltzed in his Gothic way, properly, too properly, 


164 


THE LIGHT FANTASTIC 


and too thoroughly. Then he received a card to a 
dance, and we received cards to it also, to Jim’s 
surprise, for his card came through The Girl, 
and he wondered through whom ours could have 
come. 

It was a big affair, quite splendid, and we three 
got ready for it with anticipations of pleasure for 
ourselves, and tremendous anxiety for Jim, who 
would undoubtedly return from the dance on his 
shield, since nobody could hope for his return with 
it. We had no chance to speak to The Girl: 
there were too many around her. She looked so 
radiantly pretty that night that we no longer 
blamed Jim, and we pitied him so much that we 
were miserable. 

There was an orchestra there which might have 
turned the statue of Bolivar in Central Park 
graceful. The sweep of those violins, the voices of 
the ’cellos were beyond anything. We saw Jim 
going out on the floor with The Girl. Then we 
lost them, but we pictured the pair—dear old Jim 
solemnly, ponderously dancing with that creature 
who moved like Ariel. The certainty that Jim 
would take her into the conservatory after this 
waltz, and that there she would deal him his 
death-blow, through his simple faith that never 


r MARION AMES TAOOART 165 

doubted her, made us so wretched that not one of 
the three of us once thought of dancing himself, 
though the music was that Vienna Woods Waltz 
of Strauss’s which has one movement that is hard 
to resist. Suddenly a pair of dancers passed us. 
Was this Jim? He was dancing as if he were a 
faun, a leaf in the Vienna woods, and his face— 
well, his face as he turned it toward us was 
anything but solemn. They disappeared again in 
a moment, but we had seen that Jim was truly 
conqueror—so far. 

“He had forgotten his feet!” said Hal at last, 
falling back on his formula. 

“He has forgotten everything that is of the 
earth,” I said. 

Later Jim came to look us up. I don’t think 
one of us dared raise his eyes as Jim drew near. 

“I want to give you an introduction, chum- 
mies,” he cried, and there was something in his 
voice that made us jump as we hastily looked into 
his radiant face. “She has accepted me.” 

“Accepted you!” we gasped together. 

“Why, of course; didn’t I learn to waltz as she 
bade me? But she says that was only teasing. 
She loved me from the first,” said simple Jim, 
proudly humble. 




















































St. Patrick and the Pink 
Gown 

BY EILEEN FARLEY 

Margherita stopped at St. Francis Xavier’s 
to light a candle. Dusky-eyed, pink-cheeked, 
with a piquant smartness in her tailored suit 
and jauntily-tipped toque—slender, young, Italian 
Margherita possessed what Madame, head of 
the great dressmaking shop where the girl worked, 
vaguely termed "an air.” Yet, despite the 
alert smartness of her appearance, Margherita 
was as alien in spirit as in blood from the rush 
and bustle of the land of her adoption. She 
loved the lofty, domed spaces of St. Francis’ 
great interior, filled now with soft gloom, while 
the dying brightness of a summer day illumined 
the stern, sweet countenance of the saints on 
the pictured windows. 

Far in the end of the church, at either side 
of the altar, ruddy, flickering flames showed 
before St. Joseph and the Virgin. A black-clad 

woman knelt silently in a pew, the only figure 
167 


168 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK GOWN 

in the vast edifice, and Margherita, a very splendor 
of happiness filling her own heart to bursting, felt 
a rush of pity as she caught the woman’s choked 
sobs. At the window of St. Patrick she knelt, 
and with shining eyes offered up a prayer to the 
good saint for her own Patricio. The saint 
looked down at Margherita benignly and her 
thoughts fled away to the other one, whose eyes 
were blue as the saint’s own, but whose hair 
was yellow and curling and whose clean-shaven 
mouth laughed at her and loved her. St. Patricio 
was tall and strong in his trailing robe, but 
not stronger, she thought proudly, than her 
own Patricio, who could put his arms about her 
waist and lift her into the air like a baby. 

Margherita knew St. Patrick was very great 
and powerful. She could see that in the faces 
of the men in robes and crowns who clustered 
about him, looking upward with reverence and 
awe. Also men looked at her Patricio like 
that, when he strode past, big and cheerful and 
strong, every brass button on his blue coat 
winking a warning to the unwary that the eye 
of the law was upon them. Like quicksilver, 
the girl’s thoughts ran from Patrick Mullen 
to the pink gown, which had come to be indis- 


EILEEN FARLEY 


169 


solubly connected with him in her mind. Patricio 
and the gown and her brother Tony were her 
world absolute, and filled her heart and mind 
to the exclusion of all else. 

Tony was the first chapter in Margherita’s 
life, and she loved him devotedly. Tony, too, 
had a rare affection for the little brown-eyed 
sister. He had left her with the old grandmother 
in Italy when he came to the shining land of 
his dreams, and then when the grandmother 
died Margherita had come across to his gladly 
welcoming arms. A little maid of six when she 
arrived, at ten she bought thread, matched 
scraps of silk in the big stores, and looked envi¬ 
ously at lustrous, gleaming fabrics in the shop 
of the great Madame where she was the smallest 
satellite, smoothing them tenderly with surrep¬ 
titious fingers. At nineteen she was Madame’s 
trusted assistant, with a deft touch and discerning 
eye, for which Madame prophesied a triumphant 
future. 

“The little Italian one shall be my successor,” 
the great dressmaker would say, with the dignity 
of “modiste to the exclusive.” 

But Margherita, sweet, simple, lovable, longed 
not for such glory. When Patricio had smiled 


170 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK OOWN 

on her, she gave not a passing thought to the 
greatness of the future she was losing. The 
commercial instincts that were making Tony a 
leader in the “banan”’ trade, with a bigger 
push-cart and bigger patronage than any of 
his rivals who thronged the bridge corner, were 
not in little Margherita. Kneeling now before 
St. Patrick, her heart rejoiced in the wonder 
of his loving her—Patricio, so handsome and 
so much to be desired, whose father also was 
a great man—lord mayor of Patricio’s distant 
city. 

And the pink gown! It was as many as five 
years since the vision of the gown had danced 
tantalizingly before Margherita’s dreamy dark 
eyes. Her artistic, untutored soul loved the 
rich and beautiful silks she spent her days among 
—loved them for their elusive shimmer, their 
satiny softness, their lovely, soft-hued shading. 
Sighing with delight one day over a miracu¬ 
lous creation of gossamer chiffon and silk, ready 
to leave Madame’s shop, she resolved with awed 
daring to make for herself a dress like it—one 
she need never part with. Silently she pondered 
on the idea, until it possessed her mind, and 
she hoarded her savings for it. On the day 


EILEEN FARLEY 


171 


when she walked proudly into the biggest of 
the monster department shops, whose sections 
she knew like the corners of her own tiny flat, and 
with practiced, knowing eyes, selected chiffon 
for the pink gown, the glow in her eyes startled 
the saleswoman. 

“Funny what good-lookers some of them 
Ginnies are,” she remarked to her neighbor when 
Margherita had departed. 

Dreamily the girl thought now of the stitches 
and love and sacrifices that had gone into the 
pink vision of loveliness. It rose before her 
inner eye in all its perfection of exquisite dainti¬ 
ness, not an inanimate, soulless creation of silk, 
but a shimmery, fragile, delicate thing of beauty, 
to be admired and loved and cherished. 

“Bravo, mia earn! Eet ees a peach,” Tony 
had murmured after a moment of stunned silence, 
when first she stood before him, shining-eyed 
and pink-cheeked, with its manifold ruffles 
drooping softly to her feet. It enfolded her 
like the petals of a huge pink rose, the dark 
braids of hair crowning her small head, and the 
soft darkness of her eyes thrown against its 
background of rose glory. To have the gown, 
to gaze at and touch with the joy of possession, 


172 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK GOWN 

was sufficient then for Margherita. It was only 
after Patrick Mullen appeared that she knew 
wherefore her gown had been from the beginning 
destined. With the gown she felt less her un¬ 
worthiness of Patricio. His family were very 
rich and without doubt “of a very great pride,” 
she told herself. Patricio had laughed at her 
when she feared they would scorn his Italian 
wife—but she, herself, with the intuition of a 
woman, knew. Yet, noble and lofty of descent 
though the Mullens might be, the gown was 
worthy of them. When she thought of the 
gown, her fear of Patricio’s haughty family was 
laid aside for the time. For though Margherita 
herself loved the gown tenderly for its beauty, 
without a thought of its value in dollars and 
cents, she knew instinctively it was from this 
viewpoint the family of her Patrick would view 
it, and she was glad that Madame had said it 
was more wonderful than anything her “studio” 
had produced, for Madame’s frocks were almost 
world-famous now, vying with the creations 
of the great French makers. 

Softly the brightness departed from the faces 
of the saints, and Margherita arose with a start 
from her dreaming to find the gloom deepened 


EILEEN FARLEY 


173 


to darkness, touched only by the ruddy, watch¬ 
ing eye before St. Joseph and the Blessed Mary, 
The crape-draped figure of the sobbing woman 
passed the girl, with a rustle of silk, and Mar- 
gherita sorrowed for her, “a rich lady, but 
unhappy.” 

She hastened out of the church and walked 
swiftly down Fifth Avenue. In the cool green¬ 
ness of Washington Square she loitered again, 
drinking in the soft night air in joyous content. 
Then she turned away to her own noisy street, 
where patient Tony would be wondering at her 
absence. Not until she had climbed the second 
flight of dingy stairs did she feel that anything 
was wrong. Then the troubled face of Ann 
McGuiness confronted her from out of the door 
set ajar to catch the girl's footsteps. 

“Hush, my child, till I break the news to 
you,” she exclaimed, earnestly. 

Margherita gazed at her in puzzled aston¬ 
ishment. 

“But it's plenty you have to be thankful 
for that it's not killed he is,” continued Ann Mc¬ 
Guiness, with pathetic clumsiness. Margherita 
felt a sudden tugging at her heart-strings, a queer, 
crushed feeling of breathlessness. She gasped 


174 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK GOWN 

faintly, her face chalky and breathing labored, 
“ Patricio ?” 

“Sh,” said Ann McGuiness, “ ’tis Tony, and 
Patricio’s with him this hour, waiting for you, 
my dear. Be brave now, like the girl you are. 
And the dirty villain that done the deed is cooped 
by now and a better job never done. Oh, the 
hound, to knife Tony, the decentest, most genteel 
Dago that ever breathed the air of this land 
of the free and equal.” Ann McGuiness, grown 
oratorical in her honest indignation, had not 
noticed Margherita’s swift flight up the stairs, 
until she heard her little cry as she opened the 
door above, and the strong tones of Patrick 
Mullen trying to calm her anguished weeping. 

Three weeks passed by, and Tony recovered 
but slowly from his wound. The knife aimed 
at a more vital part had landed near the knee, 
and for a time it seemed doubtful if Tony would 
ever walk again. 

Then Margherita, with dry eyes, faced the 
first tragedy of her life. Antoinette Guere was 
going to be married. Antoinette’s father was a 
banker and mayor of the East Side, and she 
was the only girl Margherita knew who could 
pay the high price Margherita asked for the 


EILEEN FARLEY 


175 


gown—the same sum the great surgeon who 
cut Tony’s leg so that he could walk again had 
placed on his services. The famous doctor did 
not ask where the big sum came from. And 
if he had known, a pink gown was but a pink 
gown to him—little scope for a tragedy in the 
sale of a silk dress. 

Mullen laughed when first she told him she 
must not marry him—not now, but perhaps 
in a year or two, she had explained. “Not 
yet but soon,” with a wistful attempt at a smile. 

“No trifling with an officer of the police, Miss 
Trevano,” he had informed her with mock stern¬ 
ness. “Do you want to be fined for impudent 
behavior?” 

But Margherita, after an appreciable interval, 
had returned to her point. 

“But, mia cara, I mean it,” she had whis¬ 
pered softly, turning a brass button nervously 
on “the law’s” coat. “Ain’t two years just 
a little bit? ” 

“With you it’s a minute, without you it’s 
a life sentence,” he retorted determinedly. 
“If it’s Tony you’re thinking of,” he continued, 
“you can leave my brother Tony to me. He’ll 
have a room hung with rose-colored satin and 


176 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK GOWN 

sky-blue carpets if you give the say-so. Sure 
I’ll be a sergeant in a month or two—expense is 
nothing to me.” 

“Toot, toot, what a blower!” laughed Mar- 
gherita, forgetting the seriousness of the moment. 

“The audacity of her saucing the police force, 
the Dago darling,” said Patrick. 

But Margherita persisted, and returned to 
the subject again and again. At last Patricio, 
in sudden anger at her refusal to give him “one 
decent reason,” had left her, furiously affirming 
that he didn’t doubt but she had seen “some 
sneaking Ginnie” she liked better. 

“ Flirt and coquette—it’s in your foreign blood,” 
he had informed her before he flung the door 
to, and poor Margherita had fallen on her little 
cot and wept the whole night through. 

“Flirt and coquette!” But how could she 
explain to him the loss of the pink gow r n and 
what it meant to her? In her heart, where 
hitherto happiness had welled up unconsciously, 
there was now a dull, smouldering ache. 

Passing St. Francis’s one day, she remembered 
how she had gone in radiant with happiness 
that summer afternoon, and again she turned 
her lagging steps toward the great entrance. 


EILEEN FARLEY 


177 


A girl, tall, handsome, in furs and velvet, coming 
out red-eyed and moving toward the great 
motor car waiting at the door, looked at Mar- 
gherita curiously. She, too, had been seeking 
consolation in the church and she wondered 
curiously if she would be happier if she were 
the dark-eyed Italian girl, while Margherita felt 
a sudden quickening of rebellion that this girl 
should have all and she nothing. Unconsciously 
she sought the window of St. Patrick and gazed 
up at the saint solemnly, with lack luster eyes. 
Her thoughts were always with Patricio, now 
—the other one. The week since she had lost him 
stretched out behind her, a period of intolerable 
ache and pain, and before her the future with¬ 
out Patricio seemed dark, hopeless, unbearable. 
Her heart ached incessantly and her eyes blurred 
constantly with the tears she could not shed. 
She rehearsed now, as she had rehearsed every 
hour of the day and in the dark hours of the night, 
the parting words of Patricio. 

But even when Margherita's heart ached most 
bitterly, when the tugging within seemed intoler- 
able, when her whole being seemed to cry out 
for Patricio, she shrank at the thought of the 
proud family of the Mullens. She, too, had her 


178 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK GOWN 

pride, and without a wedding-dress, how could 
she face their haughtiness? She raised her eyes 
imploringly to the strong, sweet face of St. 
Patrick, and at the deep kindness she felt in his 
eyes her heart swelled and burst in a flood of 
tears that eased it. She felt vaguely that if he 
could but speak he would comfort her, perhaps 
even tell her what to do. Would St. Patrick say 
like Ann McGuiness that she, Margherita, had a 
“fool's pride"? That was what she wanted to 
know—and oh, she did not want to lose Patricio. 

“Sure, there’s plenty he’ll find to comfort 
him,’’ Mrs. McGuiness had assured her. “And 
a finer-looking man nor a better there’s not on 
the force.’’ 

The setting sun reddened the robe of St. 
Patrick with wonderful colors. Kneeling on the 
ground at his feet, the kings of Ireland looked 
upward, their faces alight with admiring awe. 
Margherita fancied she could see their lips move 
in questioning. 

Surely he would settle all her troubles and per¬ 
plexities could he but speak to her—this great 
St. Patrick. Her proud little heart shrank 
in alarm from the scorn he might offer her. 
But the gentle eyes drew her on. 


EILEEN FARLEY 


179 


“Oh, say, kind St. Patricio,” she prayed, 
“Oh, say can I marry my Patricio that I love 
as you love her?”—with an earnest nod at 
the green sprig in his upraised fingers. The 
sun touched her upturned, tear-drenched face 
as eagerly she questioned the face of the saint. 

And then the miracle happened—St. Patrick 
nodded, and nodded again. There are the 
doubters, of course, who will say the setting 
sun dazzled the eyes of the little Italian girl, 
that the rays filtering through the many-pieced 
window, abetted by her imagination, deceived 
a mind wonderfully well open for that result. 
But what do the scoffers matter? To Margherita 
the good God had spoken through St. Patricio, 
for her everlasting happiness. A great wave 
of awe and thanksgiving filled her heart, and 
with a little moan she dropped her head on her 
hands and wept. When she looked up St. 
Patricio was looking down at her with benignant 
eyes. He nodded no more, but Margherita was 
satisfied—St. Patricio had answered her prayer. 

On the crossing, deep in slush, Policeman 
Patrick Mullen gloomily assisted pedestrians 
to cross. His heart was like lead and his cheery 
words of encouragement were missed by the 


180 ST. PATRICK AND THE PINK GOWN 

passers-by. A slender little girl, with great dark 
eyes and sleek braids under a saucily perched 
sailor, surveyed him anxiously from the opposite 
side of the street. He looked so cold and fierce 
and unapproachable—a veritable son of a hundred 
kings. 

Patrick Mullen saw the slender figure, and 
marched across with no lightening in his heart, 
for his many arguments and beseechings had 
fallen like snow against her adamant resolve. 
She peered up into his face shyly as he grasped 
her arm. 

“I miss my big Patricio so much,” she 
whispered. “When is it he is coming back?” 

With a shout Patrick Mullen caught the little 
figure in his arms, in the midst of the hustling 
traffic of Broadway, and placed her pink and 
speechless on the opposite sidewalk. 

“You’ll be ready to marry me next Sunday,” 
he announced, with the masterful air of a victor. 

“It is as Patricio says,” she returned shyly, 
and then she turned and fled, and the radiant 
happiness she had almost lost forever bubbled 
fresh again in her heart. 


What Influenced Jim 

BY KATHARINE JENKINS 

Happiness reigned supreme in the ivy-clad 
cottage at the foot of the hill, and every object 
in the small household, every adjunct to its life, 
bore testimony to the reigning joy. The window- 
panes sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. 
The very ivy itself was swept free of cobwebs, 
the skillets and pans ranged around the kitchen 
wall reflected the dancing fire on their polished 
surfaces. Bruno, the collie, had been given 
an extra bath. Old Dolly, the horse, was rubbed 
down till her coat was as smooth as velvet. 
The village wag insisted that even Daisy, the 
cow, had been gone over with a curry-comb, 
and that all the roosters and hens had their 
feathers dressed, but then one must always take 
the remarks of a professional joker with the 
proverbial pinch of salt. But whether the joy¬ 
ful preparations had been carried as far as stable 
and chicken-yards or not, the cottage had never 

looked so trim and cosy before. At least so 
181 


182 


WHAT INFLUENCED JIM 


thought Bob, the returning sailor son just off 
a three years’ cruise. A letter had reached 
his mother and father the day before telling 
them of his return, and they at once set to work 
to prepare for his homecoming. And what 
a welcome was his! Three years makes a great 
difference in early life. Bob had left home a 
slender lad of eighteen, and now, in place of 
the pale overgrown boy was a broad-shouldered 
ruddy young man, full of life and spirits, ready 
to conquer the world if need be. One look into 
the steady blue eyes convinced the mother. 

“He is my own same laddie, tender and true,” 
she said with infinite content. “No life, no time 
could change his loving heart.” 

She sighed as she looked at her stay-at-home 
son lounging by the gate-post. 

“Why is it that the two should be so different?” 
she thought. But there was no time then for 
sad conjectures. Bob had come home on leave 
of absence and every moment was precious. 

It was several days before the fond old mother 
and father really had a good, satisfactory talk 
with their son, for the school-children had spied 
him as he alighted from the train, and it does 
not take many hours for a village to become 


KATHARINE JENKINS 


183 


acquainted with the latest bit of news. The cot¬ 
tage was besieged day and night by curious neigh¬ 
bors, and while it pleased the old couple to have 
so much court paid their boy, still it was in a way 
hard on them, for their hearts were yearning 
to have him all to themselves. 

At last, to their great delight, a heavy rain 
set in, and with the downpour came a cessation 
of visitors. The family settled themselves for 
a long evening of uninterrupted, heart-to-heart 
talk. Even Jim, the ne’er-do-well son, stayed 
at home, and for one night at least forsook the 
village tavern. The mother’s heart was filled 
to overflowing with peace and gratitude. The 
father too, was content. 

Hour after hour the old clock in the corner 
recorded the flight of time, but its warning voice 
was unheeded by the happy quartette. In 
answer to innumerable questions Bob told of 
his glimpses of far-away countries; of the beautiful 
towering palms of Teneriffe; of the Coral Islands 
in the South Pacific Ocean; of the great rock 
of Gibraltar; of their strange passage through 
the Suez Canal; of how they had sighted an 
immense waterspout, and felt the weird influence 
of an iceberg’s near presence. From every 


184 


WHAT INFLUENCED JIM 


stopping-place he had brought home some little 
token, and as he unpacked each article, its story 
had to be briefly told to the dear folks who had 
been always in his heart and thoughts. 

The fund of anecdotes seemed as if it must 
be exhausted when the old man, a father of few 
words usually, said, “Well, Bob, my boy, you 
have seen a good bit of the world and had many 
adventures. Which one made you the happiest ?” 

Under the bronze of sun- and sea-burn Bob 
blushed a deeper tinge, and he gave a nervous 
little laugh. “Well, father,” he said, “there 
was one thing that did really make me happy, 
and the thought of it has kept me company 
many a time when I was on watch duty. I had 
thought only to tell mother about it, but as 
long as we are just here by ourselves I might 
as well tell you all together.” 

Jim, who had been sitting on the settle by 
Bob’s side, got up and stood leaning over its 
back. He was getting a bit tired of all this 
talk, and was longing to go off with his usual 
companions. But some force held him back. 
Perhaps it was Bob’s magnetic presence, the 
power of his hearty voice and steady eyes that 
was keeping him, or maybe he was simply ashamed 


KATHARINE JENKINS 185 

to go. At any rate, stay he did, and to this 
day he blesses the power, or force, or motive, 
that held him by the fireside that stormy night 
ten years ago. God’s ways are strange ones, 
and He can and does work wonders by the simplest 
of means, as in Jim’s case, and we must not 
question His actions. 

Bob renewed his own and his father’s pipe. 
Jim had laid his aside. The mother settled 
herself more comfortably to enjoy the story; 
no matter what it might be, the sound of her 
boy’s voice was music enough to her ears. 

“We were anchored in the harbor of one of 
the South American cities about two years ago 
for several months. The city has a long name 
that means it belongs to all the saints, but I am 
not much on pronouncing foreign words,” began 
Bob. 

“You could if you would,” said his proud 
old mother looking fondly at her handsome 
son. Bob laughed. 

“Oh, that’s just your notion, mother dear. 
“Well,” he continued, “we men used to get 
days off now and again, and whenever we did 
I always fairly walked my legs off to see all 
there was to be seen. And there usually was 


186 


WHAT INFLUENCED JIM 


a great deal to see, I can tell you. One day I sat 
down to rest in a sort of park or plaza, they 
call them, in front of a large building which 
seemed as if it might be an old palace. After 
a while I saw a young woman come out of the 
big door. She had a baby in her arms, and 
she looked very poor. She was crying as if 
her heart would break. The baby was crying, 
too, and it looked sick. The woman came 
right to where I was sitting, but to this day I do 
not believe she knew I was there till I spoke to her. 
I saw at once that she did not look like the South 
American woman, and I felt that perhaps I could 
help her. When I asked her if I could not do 
something for her, she nearly dropped the baby 
in her amazement. At first she shook her head 
and cried bitterly; then at last she said: 

“ ‘God must have sent you from home to 
help me in this bitter hour/ Then she told 
me hurriedly her short, sad story. She had 
come out from the States with her husband 
a couple of years before. He worked in the 
coffee warehouse. They had been very happy 
at first, but after a while the husband began 
to neglect his religious duties, and finally fell 
away altogether. Then the baby came, and 


KATHARINE JENKINS 


187 


the wife hoped its coming would soften his heart; 
but he always put her off with some good-natured 
excuse when she urged him to go to confession. 
That morning an accident had happened at the 
coffee wharf, and the husband was one of the men 
caught under the wreck. He was dying, and 
because the baby was fretful and crying, and 
there was no one to take care of it for her, the 
doctors and nurses would not let her go into 
the ward where he was. 

“ ‘ If only I could be with him I know he would 
see a priest and die happy/ she cried, ‘for die 
he must, the doctors say.' 

“Without thinking that my time off duty 
was already up and that I would be severely 
punished for disregard of discipline, I took the 
baby from the poor woman. 

“‘You go to your husband/ I said, ‘and 
I will take care of the baby.' 

“ ‘How long may I stay with him ?' she asked. 
‘As long as he needs you/ I answered recklessly. 
You see I was so worked up about the poor man, 
mother dear, that I forgot that I belonged to 
Uncle Sam's navy." 

The mother nodded in sympathy. 

“The poor baby finally cried itself to sleep, 


188 


WHAT INFLUENCED JIM 


but what a time I had with her before she did,” 
laughed Bob. “Well the afternoon wore away, 
and I was afraid to move for fear of waking the 
poor little thing. It was the very hardest day’s 
work I ever did. When the Angelus rung I 
remembered the cruiser lying out in the harbor, 
but I couldn’t forsake the baby. I thought 
of you, mother, and how you always told me 
to pray to our heavenly Mother when we are 
in trouble. How I prayed! and my prayers 
were answered, and soon too. For who do you 
think came along in a short while ? No other 
than the commander of the cruiser. When he 
saw me sitting there holding that sick baby— 
well, at first, he laughed; but when I, forgetting 
that he was my commander and I only one 
of the men behind the guns, told him all about 
the poor man and woman, what does he do but 
say: ‘Here give me that baby, my man. It’s 
plain to be seen that you don’t know much about 
nursery work. You go and see what can be 
done for the poor fellow, and I’ll take care of 
the baby.’ And he did.” 

There was a choke in Bob’s voice. 

“There wasn’t anything to be done, for the 
man was dead. But he had made his confession 


KATHARINE JENKINS 


189 


and died thanking God for His mercy. The 
commander and I took the wife and baby to 
their home that night, and when the man was 
buried we men from the cruiser acted as pall¬ 
bearers. I would have had more money to 
bring to you, mother dearest, but I felt so sorry 
for the poor little woman left out there all alone 
in a strange country that I paid her passage 
home.” 

The storm had passed, and a new day was 
dawning as the story finished. 

Bob picked up the pitcher at his side and pre¬ 
tended to take a long drink. The old father 
wiped his glasses, and swallowing a sob, gave 
a tell-tale cough. The mother, woman-like, 
honestly wept. Jim, who up to that moment 
had never done an unselfish action in his life, 
silently turned, and opening the door, stood 
with uncovered head in the morning light. 




























































































, 
























































































































The Heir 


BY MAGDALEN ROCK 

“No,” Miss Lyle said with a sigh, “there is no 
place like home. It takes twenty years of ab¬ 
sence from England to make one realize it, how¬ 
ever.” 

Mrs. Hendon smiled at her cousin’s remark. 

“I don’t know that. I’m certain nothing 
could make Oswald or me fonder of home than 
we are. Poor Oswald! He hates to spend a week 
in London.” 

Both women looked toward the many-gabled 
weather-stained mansion. Hendon Court had 
had many builders. Legend said that the rival 
Roses had fought during the length of a summer 
day near its precincts, and it was certain the 
Cromwellian soldiery had failed to capture the 
old building and had retired discomfited after 
several vigorous efforts to seize the place from 
the Royalists. The giant oak, under whose shade 
a decorous footman had just placed the tea-table, 

had been planted by the Merrie Monarch, when 
191 


192 


THE HEIR 


he returned to his kingdom. Near the chimney- 
stacks in the roof strangers were still shown a 
cramped hole that had sheltered many a priest 
in Elizabeth’s reign. 

" It is a dear old place! ” Miss Lyle remarked at 
length. She had been an exile from her own 
land through her affection for an invalid sister, 
whose life had been prolonged by abiding in 
various health-resorts from the pine-clad Alpine 
heights to sunny Algiers. "Poor Helena! She 
liked England, too. My god-daughter was but a 
baby when we went away; now she is taller than 
her mother. By-the-by, Amy, I met her as I 
came here, accompanied by a young man. Who 
is he ? ” 

"Oh, that was Stephen — Stephen Dale.” 
Mrs. Hendon replied. 

"Stephen Dale! There were no Dales here¬ 
abouts—is he a newcomer or a visitor?” 

"Neither,” Mrs. Hendon answered. "Have 
you never heard how Stephen came to be a mem¬ 
ber of our household?” 

"No.” 

"When Mildred was about three years old, she 
was seriously ill. A poor woman was found dead 
inside our gates one wintry evening. A child 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


193 


was with her. He was about five or six years old, 
and a fine, merry little lad. We took him in and 
caused inquiries to be made, but with no result. 
Mildred and he became fast friends, and as the 
doctors recommended a playfellow, Stephen re¬ 
mained with us, and the two are like brother and 
sister. Stephen has been called to the Bar, and 
is said to be clever.” Mrs. Hendon sighed. “He 
speaks of going abroad.” 

“Ah!” Miss Lyle rose from her seat. She 
was a small, keen-eyed woman, whose wandering 
life had made her singularly observant. “He 
should have a good chance of success in some of 
the colonies. Funny, isn’t it, that I never heard 
of the young man’s existence before?” 

“I’m a bad correspondent you know, Emma; 
and at that particular time my thoughts were 
occupied with Mildred,” Mrs. Hendon said, 
apologetically. 

“Yes, just so, while my agent confined him¬ 
self strictly to business. Amy, I am about to 
make what you may deem an impertinent re¬ 
mark. Is Stephen Dale in love with Mildred? 
She stopped to speak to me, and I caught a glance 
in his eyes that I thought said so.” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Henderson admitted after a 


194 


THE HEIR 


momentary pause. “That is why he is going 
away. I was hurt and angry when he announced 
his intention and he confessed the truth. He 
recognized, as fully as any one, that marriage 
was not to be thought of.” 

“I am glad he is so sensible,” Miss Lyle said, 
“and glad that he is going away. My god¬ 
daughter must marry differently.” 

“I don’t think I am ambitious, Emma; neither 
is Oswald. If Mildred’s happiness were in¬ 
volved, there’s no saying what we might do.” 

Miss Lyle was rankly conservative. “Thank 
goodness her happiness is not involved then! 
Amy, such a match would never, never do. I 
don’t think of money, but I do think of birth and 
blood.” 

Mrs. Hendon remained under the oak-tree 
when her cousin had departed, ruminating upon 
their conversation. 

“I am glad that Oswald does not suspect that 
Stephen cares for Mildred,” she said at length, 
rising to go indoors. Half way across the stretch 
of green turf that intervened she met Mr. Hendon. 
She noted that he looked excited and worried. 

“What is amiss, Oswald?” she inquired hastily. 
“Has Stephen—” 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


195 


“Come into the library, Amy. I have made a 
terrible discovery,” Mr. Hendon interrupted. 

“A terrible discovery! ” Mrs. Hendon echoed. 

“Yes. Come in.” 

The two passed into the wide entrance hall and 
on to the library. It was an old room paneled 
in oak, and a bookcase occupied one side of the 
apartment. 

“I have been searching all the morning and 
afternoon for Robinson’s lease. The railway 
people insist on having all documents before 
completing the purchase of the land.” 

“Yes.” Mrs. Hendon knew her husband had 
sold a portion of land near the railroad line. 

“Well, the old lease wasn’t to be easily found; 
and at length I thought of the iron-bound chest 
that is lying in the attic. I had it brought down 
— ” Mr. Hendon paused. 

“And found the lease?” 

“No. I found a will properly signed and at¬ 
tested. You know, or perhaps you do not know, 
that my grand-uncle had one daughter. She 
married against his wishes and he refused to see 
her or hold any intercourse with her. At the 
same time he made a will bequeathing Hendon 
Court to my father. The will I have found is of 


196 


THE HEIR 


a later date. I know my grand-uncle’s signature, 
and the signature to the will I have found is his. 
By it Hendon Court and his entire property was 
left to his daughter.” 

“Oh, Oswald!” 

“Yes. I was never so completely astounded, 
and I don’t mind telling you that for a moment 
I was tempted—” 

“Oh, Oswald! not to destroy the will!” 

“To leave it where it was.” Mr. Hendon said. 
“Philip Hendon’s daughter is probably dead, 
but likely there were children. I must go to 
Gray, the lawyer, at once, and tell him the state 
of affairs. His father, who has long since retired 
from business, might know something of Philip 
Hendon’s daughter. Her name was Rachel 
Hendon.” 

“It may be that she left no children.” 

“That is possible,” Mr. Hendon said, “and I 
trust there is no wrong in hoping so.” 

“It would be hard to leave the Court,” Mrs. 
Hendon murmured, “but we must think only of 
what is right and just.” 

“Exactly. Don’t mention the matter to Mil¬ 
dred or Stephen. We needn’t make them un¬ 
happy sooner than need be. Now I’ll get out the 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


197 


carriage, and drive into Rutherford and see Gray. 
I won’t get home till late, so you needn’t wait 
dinner.” 

Mrs. Hendon was not a very lively companion 
that evening. When questioned over her dull¬ 
ness she alleged she had a headache. Despite the 
headache, however, she was waiting her husband’s 
coming in the library when he reached home. 

“Send the servants to bed,” Mr. Hendon or¬ 
dered, “and then come back. No, I don’t re¬ 
quire anything. I dined with old Gray.” 

“Rachel Hendon married, Gray says,” he 
began, when his wife returned, “an artist named 
Redcar. The old man has a wonderful memory 
and remembers the Red cars quite well. They 
lived at a place near London called Meadway, 
and they had one daughter.” 

“One daughter!” 

“Yes. She married. Gray doesn’t know the 
husband’s name, but he believes there will be 
little difficulty in tracing her.” 

Mrs. Hendon gave a little sigh. “ It seems hard, 
Oswald, but right must be done.” 

“Yes. Gray will begin inquiries at once. We 
will think no more about the matter till we hear 
from him, Amy,” Mr. Hendon said. 


198 


THE HEIR 


So life went on in the usual way at the court. 
Stephen Dale spent most of the time in London, 
making preparations for emigrating. He was very 
much surprised one day by a visit from Mr. Hen¬ 
don’s lawyer. Mr. Gray talked of several matters, 
and finally led the talk to Stephen’s own affairs. 

“By-the-by, do you remember your mother’s 
name, Mr. Dale?” he asked. 

“No,” the young man answered. He rose and 
went to a desk. “I can recollect nothing of my 
early life,” he added, “but here is a pocketbook 
containing some papers and other articles which 
were in the possession of the poor woman who 
had charge of me.” 

“Ah! just so. Look here, Mr. Dale, I want you 
to trust me with them for a few days.” 

Stephen looked surprised. “Why?” 

“I should rather say nothing. You know me 
and can trust me.” 

“Yes, of course,” 

“Will you meet me at Hendon Court this day 
week at noon?” 

“Certainly, but—” 

“Never mind expressing your astonishment,” 
the lawyer laughed, and hastened away before 
Stephen could say anything further. 


MAGDALEN ROCK 


199 


“Things are not turning out so badly,” Mr. 
Gray said that same night to his father, who 
muttered something in reply. 

“Well, I should prefer that a Hendon should be 
at Hendon Court, too; but isn’t Dale better than 
some impossible stranger, father? I must write 
to Mr. Hendon and say we have found the heir.” 
Mr. Gray the younger had some dramatic in¬ 
stincts, and rubbed his hands as he thought of the 
meeting that would take place at Hendon Court. 

That meeting took place as he planned. Mr. 
and Mrs. Hendon listened while Mr. Gray told 
how he had acted. There had been little diffi¬ 
culty in finding the person required, Mr. Gray, 
explained. 

“And when Mrs.— ahem, the heir’s mother 
was dying, I suspect she sent the child with a 
servant— ” Mr. Gray was seized with a sudden 
fit of coughing. 

“And the heir is a very fine young fellow,” 
Mr. Gray spoke cheerily and his client winced 
inwardly, “and I fancy we shall have him here 
in a few minutes.” 

“Here!” Mrs. Hendon was indignant. 

“Yes—there’s a fly coming up the drive.” 
Mr. Gray walked to the window and waited there 


200 


THE HEIR 


till the door of the room opened to admit Stephen 
Dale. 

“Stephen!” husband and wife cried together. 

“Mr. Gray asked me—” Stephen began in 
surprise. 

The lawyer interrupted. “Mr. Dale is the 
heir. He is Rachel Hendon’s grandson.” 

Explanation after explanation followed, but 
it was some time before Stephen understood. 
When he did he went up to Mrs. Hendon. 

“I don’t want Hendon Court, or money, or 
anything of the kind,” he whispered, “but I do 
want Mildred. May I woo her?” 

Six months later there was a wedding at Hen¬ 
don Court. 

“And really the discovery of the heir makes 
very little difference,” Miss Lyle remarked to 
Mr. Gray at that function. “ Once I thought a 
marriage between Mr. Dale and my god-child 
would have been a dreadful thing; and now I am 
so pleased that Mildred has married the heir!” 


The War of the Roses 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART 

The close proximity of life in the country em¬ 
phasizes faults and virtues; there is no perspec¬ 
tive through which to view humanity, thereby 
getting a true idea of its proportions. 

Side by side, in a little village separated only 
by their respective grassy lawns, stood two small 
houses. They looked as freshly pretty, as amica¬ 
bly suited to each other as two bowls of butter 
and cream. The one was delicately yellow, the 
other snowy-white; each was surrounded by 
shade trees, grass, and flowers; both were immacu¬ 
lately well kept, although both were presided over 
by two maiden ladies. These ladies might have 
been growing elderly had their lives not been 
spent in that village which preserved them their 
title of ‘‘the Tracy girls,” with the indifference 
to years which did not so much look upon them 
as young as it ignored their becoming old. These 
“Tracy girls” of past fifty were distant cousins, 
and had been constant companions and friends 
201 


202 


THE WAR OF THE ROSES 


until all danger of separation seemed past—and 
then they fell out. 

To be near each other they had built the butter 
and the cream houses, selling their inherited farms, 
and beginning again in the heart of the village. 
The fence down the length of their lots between 
the houses was built because fences, like windows, 
were part of the appointments that are—not 
because Miss Ann or Miss Lucy needed or wanted 
one. Yet if there had been no fence there would 
have been nothing to lean on in those frequent 
chats which filled interstices between the after¬ 
noon visits when Ann brought her sewing and 
sat with Lucy, or the evenings in which Lucy 
brought her paper and read to Ann. 

When they fell out it was about nothing at all, 
as is often the case in the most irremediable 
breaks in friendship. As much as anything it 
seemed to be at last a quarrel about the climbing 
roses which the old friends had planted to twine 
on the fence that marked their unnecessary 
boundaries, crimson roses on Ann’s side, white 
ones on Lucy’s. The roses ran riot; they waved 
long arms across the fence, they refused to be 
restrained, and they led to heated discussions, ac¬ 
cusations, unexpected and not too-logical deduc- 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


203 


tions on the part of each woman, as to the in¬ 
tentions and character of the other. After a 
time the situation passed beyond recriminations; 
a deadly silence settled down over the little 
houses, and Miss Ann and Miss Lucy Tracy 
passed each other in the quiet streets in apparent 
blindness, and the roses reached appealing arms 
across a fence which no longer supported two 
slender figures inclined over its palings in earnest 
confab. 

Underlying all the minor causes which seemed 
to have led to the break was the real cause— 
Miss Ann's niece, Margery, Miss Lucy’s nephew, 
Tom. 

By a curious coincidence both of these solitary 
women had fallen heir, at nearly the same time, 
to a child, each child the legacy of a dead brother. 
The children were almost the same age, and, 
although one was a girl who looked like an angel, 
and the other a boy who looked like—well, like 
a normal boy, they were precisely alike in being 
charged to their finger-tips with mischievousness 
that kept their perplexed guardians in hot water. 
It was this hot water that had overflowed, and 
had involved the old friends in dissension. Yet 
neither would have admitted that she had been 


204 


THE WAR OF THE ROSES 


annoyed by the other’s comments on her charge. 
Both the aunts were doting ones, though sore- 
tried, and each insisted that she could not, nor 
ever would, overlook the other’s abominable be¬ 
havior—about the roses. 

The feud, “the war of the roses,” Margery 
called it when she attained an age capable of his¬ 
torical allusions—set in when the children were 
seven and eight; it raged as strong as ever when 
they were seventeen and eighteen. It assumed 
serious proportions, for Miss Lucy would not re¬ 
ceive the Sacraments being unwilling to speak 
to Ann, though Ann, of more resolute fiber, 
stalked as regularly to confession as ever, declar¬ 
ing that she had done no wrong, and that the 
break was not of her making. In vain the help¬ 
less priest tried to bring about a reconciliation. 

“ We are not doing wrong, Father, we are not 
quarrelling. We simply prefer to live at peace, 
and the one way to do that is not to speak to each 
other,” said Ann. While Lucy only cried and 
cried when he labored with her, and her soft ob¬ 
stinacy proved quite as unconquerable as Ann’s 
more visible granite temper. 

So the good priest shrugged his shoulders, and 
left the matter to time and the consciences of the 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


205 


belligerents—as indeed he had no choice except 
to do. 

Tom and Margery were friends, chums of the 
chummiest, and now that they were growing up 
their estranged guardians thought that there were 
symptoms of something more than friendship 
between them, symptoms which they noted with 
hidden and inconsistent satisfaction. The young 
people naturally felt certain that anything like a 
love affair between them would call forth oppo¬ 
sition on the part of their aunts, for since Tom 
belonged to Lucy, and Margery belonged to Ann, 
and Ann and Lucy detested each other, it was not 
likely that they would approve of something 
stronger than friendship between the second 
generation sheltered by the two small houses. 
They did not know that in their secret hearts 
Ann and Lucy were pining for the end of their 
feud to come with no loss of dignity, that they 
were putting out their arms and hearts in secret, 
much as the white and the red roses reached out 
across the deserted fence. 

Fourth of July was near and Margery and Tom 
decided to resume the customs of earlier Fourths. 
Tom brought the customs—white packages 
scrawled with red cabalistics, small round boxes 


206 


THE WAR OF THE ROSES 


of innocent appearance, and cap pistols that ad¬ 
mitted no disguise. Tom was eighteen, but he 
surveyed his investment of his own and Mar¬ 
gery’s savings with a satisfaction that struck off 
half his years. Margery, too, regarded with high 
approval the prospect of celebrating Independ¬ 
ence after the fashion of dependent years. 

“Let’s sit on the fence, Marge, right among the 
York and Lancaster roses, and blaze away at the 
aunts at dawn,” said Tom. “We’ll waken them 
with a charge of a whole package. Can you get 
up without being called?” 

“I can get up at any time that I make up my 
mind to waken,” said Margery. “I wish there 
was some sort of beneficent dynamite that we 
could use, and blow the dear old things into each 
other’s arms! It’s so ridiculous for them to make 
themselves miserable as they do!” 

“And we’ve got to have them come together 
before we’re married,” added Tom. Which re¬ 
mark will show that the budding boy and 
girl romance was regarded seriously by the 
principals. 

“Time enough for that!” retorted Margery. 
“The idea of planning to sit on a fence firing 
crackers Fourth of July morning, and then talking 


MARION AMES TAGGART 207 

of marrying! Now you go to supper, Tommy, 
and see that you don’t over-sleep to-morrow!” 

“ Likely,” observed Tommy, with scorn. 

The gray dawn was breaking on Fourth of 
July morning when two figures stole out stealthily, 
one from each little cottage, and steered straight 
for the rose-entwined fence. One figure was 
burdened with packages, the other brought only 
her unhampered sweetness. 

Margery climbed nimbly to her place on the 
fence, pushing away the aggressive roses. Tom 
followed her, but altered his mind, and dis¬ 
mounted again. He laid firecrackers and more 
firecrackers along the fence. Then he handed a 
piece of lighted fuse to Margery. “When I snap 
my fingers, light ’em,” he ordered. And Margery 
nodded. 

Tom swung over the fence and laid an immense 
bunch of crackers under the open sitting-room 
window of his own home, the window above which 
Miss Lucy was sleeping the sleep of those who live 
far enough from a large town on Fourth of July 
morning. When his own preparations were com¬ 
plete Tom straightened himself, held up a hand, 
and snapped his fingers loudly to Margery. In- 
stantly that fellow accomplice, half sweetheart^ 


208 


THE WAR OF THE ROSES 


wholly playmate, touched her fuse to the end of 
her ammunition. At the same moment Tom 
lighted his pile, and Margery jumped off the 
fence as Tom stepped back to wait the result of 
their action. 

It came. A burst of deafening sound, that 
brought Miss Lucy to her feet out of the depths 
of unsuspecting slumber, and left Miss Ann 
trembling in her bed, unable for an instant to 
take in what had happened. 

It did far more. It sent a firecracker leaping 
out of its place through the open window of the 
yellow cottage, into the swaying muslin curtain, 
which blazed to the ceiling almost the instant it 
caught. Margery shrieked, but Tom dashed to 
the door, remembering only as he tried it that he 
had come out through that open window, and 
that the house was still locked up. 

“Aunt Lucy!” cried Tom, pounding at the 
door. 

“Miss Lucy! Fire!” screamed Margery. Her 
voice was half drowned by the reverberating 
crackers exploding all down the line on the fence 
where Margery had started them. 

Tom ran back, vaulted the window-sill, and 
dropped down inside, impeded by Margery’s fran- 


MARION AMES TAGGART 209 

tic clutch of his coat as she saw him trying to at¬ 
tempt the burning window. Already little shoots 
of flame were licking around the casement; Tom 
burned his hands badly pulling down the shade— 
the curtain was already in ashes. But while 
Margery was imploring Tom to open the door 
and let her in to help him fight the fire, a long, 
thin figure came over the fence, its natural length 
and slimness increased by the gray flannel wrapper 
that made it look as sleek as a rat. Miss Ann 
went straight to the door, her face pale and de¬ 
termined. As she reached it, it opened, and Miss 
Lucy confronted her, as pale as she, but tremu¬ 
lous and shattered. 

Miss Ann caught her in her arms. “Then 
you’re not killed!” she cried. And there was 
no mistaking the note in her voice that proclaimed 
what it would have been to her if Miss Lucy were 
hurt. 

“Ann!” gasped Lucy. The two elderly women 
looked at each other, falling back a step on either 
side to do so. Each saw how relentlessly the 
morning light and terror revealed the years that 
had passed since they were girls together, full 
of life and fun as Tom and Margery were now. 
In that quick inspection each realized how much 


210 THE WAR OF THE ROSES 

the other was to her, and how ill they could afford 
to waste the remaining years as they had been 
wasting the past ten years. For a moment they 
forgot the fire, the danger to the house in the 
contemplation of the greater risk that they had 
been taking. 

“Yes, it’s Ann,” said Ann, and her voice said 
for her all that this included. “Now we’ll go 
help those crazy youngsters to save the Butter 
Pat, Lucy.” 

Lucy choked. It touched her beyond the 
possibility of replying to hear Ann using the nick¬ 
name which they had long ago given to Lucy’s 
little yellow house. 

Hand in hand the Tracy girls came into the 
threatened room, before the amazed eyes of the 
mischief-makers. The danger was over. Tom had 
put out the last little flicker of fire, and only black¬ 
ened woodwork remained, with smoke to prove 
the truth of the adage, that here had been fire. 

“We’re going to have a Fourth of July dinner 
at our house, Margery,” said Miss Ann. And 
Margery marvelled at her escaping without a 
rebuke, as much as she marvelled at the peace 
tableau before her. “Lucy, come upstairs and 
let me help you dress. Margery, go see to a fire 


MARION AMES TAGGART 211 

in the kitchen stove—you and Tom seem to be 
good at fires—and set the kettle on for your 
Aunt Lucy’s coffee.” 

The two Tracy girls went upstairs without 
vouchsafing any explanation of the marvelous 
spectacle they afforded. Miss Ann’s arm was 
around Miss Lucy, and the feebler woman leaned 
on the stronger as if she had longed for her sup¬ 
port. 

“I guess we ought to keep this as Dependence 
Day—not Independence,” said Miss Ann tenderly, 
noting this. “We didn’t get on very well without 
each other, did we, Lu?” 

“It’s been dreadful. I couldn’t even go to 
confession when we were quarrelling, Ann. I 
was so wicked—yet I couldn’t seem to give in! 
I felt like Cain, and I knew if I tried to be good 
God would say: Where is thy sister? Oh, Ann, 
what has it been all about?” sobbed Lucy. 

“You’ve been better than I, because you felt 
more wicked,” said Ann gently. “What was it 
all about? I don’t know; just madness, bad 
temper, obstinacy—and climbing roses as much 
as anything!” 

“We’ll celebrate to-day, and we’ll go to church 
together to-morrow just as we used to when we 


212 


THE WAR OF THE ROSES 


were in the Confirmation class/’ cried Lucy, in 
hysterical joy. “Ann, Ann, there’s no love like 
the love of two lonely old women, who used to be 
happy girls together, the love of two more than 
sisters for each other! Yet my Tom wants to 
marry your Margery by-and-by! May he?” 

“When the time comes—when they stop play¬ 
ing with firecrackers on the Fourth!” said Ann 
with a short laugh. “I’m going home, Lucy. 
Dress yourself in your best and come over to din¬ 
ner. It’s lamb and green peas, but it’s really 
fatted calf.” 

“For I’m a prodigal,” said contrite Lucy. 

“No; I am,” retorted Ann. 

And at dinner that day Margery mischievously 
twined the table with long branches of the climb¬ 
ing roses, red and white. “Because it was the 
end of the war of the roses,” she said. Tom put 
a red rose in the girl’s hair, and putting it there 
stole something sweeter. 


At the Tolling of the 
Angelus 

BY SYLVESTRE PERRY 

My friend, the Sheriff of I- County, and 

myself were seated in the office of the municipal 
clerk one evening in March, enjoying a pipe and 
chat after disposing of some official business. The 
day had been particularly stormy, and from the 
office windows we could see the drift ice of the 
Gulf of St. Lawrence, now broken up, driving in 
huge masses before the wind. A number of dark 
objects, scattered here and there on these “clamp¬ 
ers,” we could see, by the aid of field-glasses, to 
be seals. Said the clerk, as he laid by his glasses 
and turned from the window: 

“Well, of all kinds of work under the sun, I think 
the seal-hunter’s work must be the worst. A man 
never knows, when he is on an ice field, how soon 
a storm may arise which will break it up and carry 
him out to sea, to freeze or starve to death. Only 
yesterday evening the Gulf was one unbroken sheet 
of ice as far as the eye could see, and now look 

at it after the wind has worked its will on it for a 
213 



214 AT THE TOLLING OF THE ANGELUS 

few hours. It would be certain death to be caught 
on that ice field in such a storm as this.” 

“Yes,” said the sheriff, as he puffed at his pipe, 
“the seal-hunter’s life is certainly one of hard¬ 
ship and danger, and I should say a man caught 
on one of these clampers would not have one 
chance in a hundred of getting to shore alive. No, 
nor one chance in a thousand, either, fighting, as 
he must, against wind and tide and the bitter cold. 
Yet I know three men who were caught in a worse 
storm than this, and on a worse part of the coast, 
and are still alive to tell of it. 

“It’s rather a strange story, and I would not 
tell it to many, because in these days of the mod¬ 
ernist and the dabbler in science, I would be 
laughed at for a superstitious fool. But I know 
that both of you are, like myself, old-fashioned 
enough to believe in supernatural intervention. 
Thank the Lord, I can believe in it. I have no 
patience with these people who are always seeking 
within themselves causes for the most marvelous 
occurrences. They would make of God a being 
who, having created the earth and designed the 
laws of nature, troubles Himself no more with 
earthly things. Just as if the least work of His 
hands were too insignificant to merit His care! 


SYLVESTRE PERRY 


215 


“But my story. It is nearly fifty years since the 
incident occurred. I was not born then, but the 
three men are still living, and I have heard the 
story from each one of them. They were young 
men at the time, between twenty-five and thirty, 
and all newly married. Well, one morning about 
the middle of March, Felix Deveau, one of the 
three, was at the beach very early, and as day broke 
he could see, less than half a mile from the shore, 
hundreds of little black specks, which told him the 
seals had come in the night. Now this meant a 
fine stroke of luck for Deveau if he could be first 
on the scene; so he lost no time in rousing his 
fishing partners, Arsene Doucette and Jean Le 
Blanc. Very soon the three were on the ice, each 
armed with a rifle and a good stout club. 

“You may be sure it did not take them long to 
cover the half-mile of ice, and then followed such 
a slaughter of seals as was never before heard of 
on that coast. The animals were so easy of ap¬ 
proach that they did not use their guns once, but 
just walked up and knocked them on the head with 
their clubs. They kept this up undisturbed for an 
hour or so. Then some one else discovered what 
was going on, and pretty soon every fisherman in 
the village was making his way out over the ice. 


216 AT THE TOLLING OF THE ANGELUS 


“But all of a sudden, before they had got half 
way out, they all stopped, turned, and ran back. 
A light breeze had sprung up, blowing off shore. 
The men knew the danger signals too well to re¬ 
main any longer on the ice, for all the signs 
pointed to a coming gale, and there could be no 
doubt of what its effect would be on a sheet of ice 
already weakened by the March sun. But the three 
men among the seals were too much engrossed in 
their work, too excited over the thought of the rich 
harvest of dollars they were reaping, to be aware 
of their danger. They never noticed the freshen¬ 
ing of the southeast wind, never heard the warn¬ 
ing cries of their friends on shore, till one of them, 
stopping to mop his forehead, happened to look 
inland, and saw the men there waving their arms. 
Then, when the breeze struck fairly in his face, he 
realized his danger. He gave just one warning yell 
to his companions, dropped gun and club, and ran 
for his life. 

“The other two saw at once the danger of their 
position and started after their comrade, strain¬ 
ing every nerve to get ashore before the ice field 
should break clear. It was no use. Before they 
had gone more than a hundred yards the ice parted, 
and when they reached its edge they were over a 


SYLVESTRE PERRY 


217 


quarter of a mile from shore. None of them were 
good swimmers. Even if they had been, it is not 
likely that they could live through a quarter-mile 
swim in ice-cold water. 

“So there was nothing for them to do but re¬ 
main where they were, and trust to Providence and 
their friends on shore to get them off. 

“You can easily understand that their position 
was a very dangerous one, but it was not at all 
hopeless. They had two chances of escape. Their 
friends on shore would certainly make all haste to 
launch a boat and come to their rescue; or the wind 
might change at any time, and blow them to shore 
again. The chance of escape by boat would have 
been a perfectly safe one, provided a boat was 
ready. But there was none. They were all under 
cover with their rigging stowed away, and it would 
take more than an hour to fit one out. 

“And while the people on shore were getting a 
boat, the southeast wind continued to blow more 
fiercely every minute. Soon snow began to fall, 
and by the time the boat was ready a regular bliz¬ 
zard was raging. Of course it was useless to think 
of navigating a boat among these driving ice floes, 
when a man could hardly see his hand before his 
face. So there was one avenue of escape blocked. 


218 AT TEE TOLLING OF THE ANGELTJS 

And that was not the worst, for there was now the 
added danger that the ice would continue to break 
up under the combined action of wind and wave, 
and that meant death by drowning instead of 
starvation. 

“But the ice field held, and continued to drift 
north. There was now oijly one hope for the un¬ 
fortunate men. If they could survive the blizzard, 
and the wind shifted before they cleared the coast 
and rounded North Cape, they were safe. From 
Grand Harbor to North Cape is fifty miles. 
Surely, they thought, the wind could not hold 
from the southeast long enough to blow them clear 
of the cape. If it did it was the open sea for them 
and certain death. 

“Well, the wind did hold. That day passed, and 
another, and the third day, though somewhat mod¬ 
erated, it had not veered a point. By that time 
their friends on shore had given up the three for 
dead. The three young wives betook themselves 
to the church, and hardly moved from it except to 
implore the kind old priest, Father Gervais, to 
do something for their loved ones. Father Ger¬ 
vais joined in their prayers, and offered up the 
Mass twice for the safe return of their husbands. 
The whole parish attended, and you may be sure 


SYLVESTRE PERRY 


219 


many a fervent prayer was offered. Still nothing 
happened to give them the least hope, and when 
the people assembled for Mass on the third day, 
most of them thought their prayers were better 
made for the repose of the souls of their three 
friends. 

“Yet the poor women did not despair, and al¬ 
ways they continued to beseech Father Gervais to 
save their husbands. 'Oh, Father/ they said, 'you 
can save them. Surely you will not see our hus¬ 
bands taken from us and our children left 
fatherless and homeless? You know we are 
poor enough now, and if we lose them what will 
become of us? For the love of God, Father, save 
them V 

“Father Gervais would always tell them to go to 
their prayers, saying that if God willed a way 
would be found to save the men. So they would 
return to the church, only to come back in a few 
minutes weeping and wailing and praying the 
priest to help them. Eelatives and friends came 
also, and added their entreaties. Finally Father 
Gervais began to lose patience. 

“ 'You foolish people/ he broke out, 'who are 
you, or what am I, that we should presume to dis¬ 
pute the will of God ? We have prayed for the res- 


220 AT THE TOLLING OF THE ANGELUS 

cue of these poor men, and it is for Him to grant 
or reject our petitions as He sees fit/ 

“Then his eyes lighted on one of the women, 
who had fallen at his feet and clutched his gown. 
The tears came into his eyes. 

“ ‘Have courage, my child/ he said. ‘God is 
good. Have confidence in Him and go back to 
your prayers, and if your husband is still alive 
he shall come back to you safe. Jacques/ to 
his servant, ‘go to the church and ring the 
bell, so that every one within hearing of it 
may say a prayer for the poor men. To the 
church, all of you, and we will recite the rosary. 
The Mother of God will not refuse to help 
us/ 

“This was a little before dark on the third day, 
and at that time the three men on the ice field 
were opposite the North Cape. A few minutes 
more, and they would round it. Then, of course, 
they were doomed. They had given up all hope. 
All three were lying on the ice. They did not even 
try, as on the first two days, to keep themselves 
warm by running about and swinging their arms. 
On the evening of the first day they divided the 
lunch which Doucette had taken with him. Since 
then they had eaten nothing, and between cold and 


SYLVESTRE PERRY 


221 


hunger they were so benumbed and exhausted that 
they cared little whether they lived or died. 

“Well, the ice field was within two or three hun¬ 
dred yards of the outer extremity of the cape, when 
suddenly Doucette started up. 

“ ‘My God, what is that I hear V he cried. The 
same sound reached the ears of his companions. 
They listened, and again it came, louder and 
clearer. 

“ ‘The angelus bell of St. Gabrielle’s!' they 
shouted. But how could it be ? Their own church 
of St. Gabrielle’s was fifty miles away, and the 
sound of its bell could not travel more than one- 
tenth that distance. Yet there was no mistaking 
the tones they had heard every day for nearly 
thirty years. Besides, there is no church nearer 
North Cape than that of Grand Harbor. It must 
be their own bell. 

“Then the thought struck them that they had 
gone insane. At that they threw themselves on 
their knees, and prayed that if they must die they 
might retain their reason and meet death with 
prayers on their lips. And then they felt the ice 
heave under them. There was a dull report. The 
next moment they found themselves separated from 
the ice field and stamping on a clamper about ten 


222 AT THE TOLLING OF THE ANGELUS 


yards long and half as wide. Then that clamper, 
instead of following the main body of ice around 
the cape, went, against wind and tide, directly to¬ 
ward shore. And in a few minutes the three were 
striking inland, looking for shelter. 

“Well, they got shelter in a deserted fishing 
shanty. In two days they were home again. Father 
Gervais died a few years later. To the old people 
of Grand Harbor he is still the ideal priest. Hun¬ 
dreds of stories are told of his kindness and piety, 
but none which serve so much to keep his memory 
green as that of the miraculous escape of the three 
fishermen.” 


“The Last Shall be First” 


BY MAY FINNEGAN 

She was small and dark and timid, with bright, 
unwinking black eyes, neither large nor enhanced 
by curling lashes and arched brows, but you looked 
down into them a second time. The skin was drawn 
tightly over the high cheekbones and angular fea¬ 
tures, yet not so tightly as was the rough dark hair 
twisted into a hard little knot like a door knob at 
the back of her head. Her hands, large, red, shape¬ 
less, were the legacy of generations of hewers of 
wood and drawers of water. Her clothes were al¬ 
most painfully neat, but with the same austere con¬ 
tempt for beauty, grace and style as shown in the 
stiff knot of hair. 

Something in the low, half-frightened voice and 
upturned eyes made Maggie pause, at the risk of 
spoiling her cookery, polish off her red, steaming 
face, set her arms akimbo, and look kindly on the 
humble little figure. 

“An’ you’re Annie, the new waitress, then? 
Well, good luck to ye. Ye’ll find the room at the 
top of the stair there—or mebbe ye’d rather be wid 
Elsie ? 


223 


224 


THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST” 


“Elsie,” she continued, as a pretty girl in white 
cap and apron entered the kitchen, “this is Annie, 
the new waitress.” 

“How de do?” Elsie vouchsafed, in a cold, su¬ 
perior tone. 

Annie smiled bashfully and Maggie came to the 
rescue. 

“Well, little gurral, will ye stop wid me or 
Elsie?” 

“I’d like to be with you,” she answered, turning 
her timid, admiring eyes on big, capable-looking 
Maggie. 

“Well, thin, be off wid ye an’ get ready for 
work,” she said in a loud, gruff voice by way of 
hiding how greatly flattered she was at Annie’s 
choice. 

“She’s nothing but a Ginny! The idea!” ex¬ 
claimed Elsie in lofty disgust. 

“Thrue fer ye,” answered Maggie, “but she 
makes me feel like blessin’ meself—wid riverence 
be it said—thim eyes o’ hers are that holy like.” 

Annie proved a very efficient waitress—calm, 
quiet, watchful, and stolid. Mrs. Brandt, dainty 
and beautiful herself, adored beauty and grace, 
and would much rather have kept pretty Elsie for 
table service, but Elsie could never be made to re- 


MAY FINNEGAN 


225 


member on which side of the diner to stand, nor to 
forget her own pretty self. So Annie kept the 
position. 

As the days went by a strong friendship grew 
between Annie and Maggie—a kind of adoration 
on Annie’s part for one older and braver than her¬ 
self, and on Maggie’s, the tenderness of a strong 
nature for a timid one. There was, too, a kind 
of awe in Maggie’s eyes even when she scolded An¬ 
nie for her “softness,” for, while Maggie’s heart 
was as tender and kind as her tongue was some¬ 
times sharp and harsh, she never waited to be 
told to move up higher, especially if there was a 
possibility of elbowing up, and a nature that calmly 
stepped aside and allowed the world to go ahead 
with never a thought of self was the unknown 
quantity to Maggie. 

“Glory be, I wonder did the saints ever get sore 
knees,” Maggie mused, as she watched Annie’s rapt 
face at her evening prayers. 

“Bless you, alanna, but you’re mighty conceited 
to think the Lord’ll never get tired listenin’ to ye. 
I cut my own story short, becase, sez I to myself, 
‘shure He’ll have that one to listen to fer an hour 
yet.’ ” 

“Oh, He never get tired, never,” said Annie, 


226 


'THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST' 


smiling. Annie was beginning to understand a 
joke. The first day that would have seemed shock¬ 
ing irreverence, but now she knew that Maggie was 
never wilfully irreverent. 

The one thing Maggie could not understand was 
Annie’s “stinginess.” No persuasion could get her 
to cast aside the old dress while it was clean and 
would hold together. Not a penny would she 
spend in beautifying herself, and she puzzled her 
friend still more by murmuring something about 
“the poor old mans and womans.” In all other 
things she was like wax, but she held to her money 
with a powerful grip, although she acknowledged 
that she had no relatives to provide for. 

“To be just a miser,” thought Maggie, with a 
puzzled frown, “an’ her such a sweet little saint. 
It do beat me all out.” 

Just one dream of earthly happiness did Annie 
have. Once the girl in her came to the fore and 
her womanly longing for admiration claimed its 
own. 

Jerry, the debonair young coachman, thought it 
a great joke to “jolly” Annie. But to poor Annie 
it was deadly earnest. In her language a spade 
meant a spade always, neither more nor less, and 
when Jerry asked if she wasn’t going to the dance 


MAY FINNEGAN 


227 


with him the following Wednesday, Elsie and he 
laughed, because he was so “comical.” 

But Annie’s heart beat high. The hours 
seemed very long till Wednesday. Maggie was 
delighted when Annie asked her to help pick out 
a dress, not guessing for what purpose it was 
intended. 

She thought: “The girl is coming to her senses 
at last.” It was a dull red with a touch of cream. 
It fitted well, and when her hair was fluffed out she 
was a transformed Annie. 

“Well, I wish ye your health to wear it, darlin’,” 
said Maggie exultantly. “Shure I never thought 
ye wor so purty!” 

“Oh, Maggie!” gasped Annie, “Jerry, he say I 
pretty.” 

“Is it that scalawag ? Pay no attention to what 
he says.” 

On the eventful night Annie took a long, long 
time to dress, her heart beating at the thought of 
all the things Jerry had said—and promptly for¬ 
gotten. Then she went down into the servants’ 
dining-room. In a few minutes Elsie flounced 
through the room, a dainty vision in white. She 
scarcely ever deigned to notice Annie, but to-night 
she stared to see Annie dressed up. Suddenly she 


228 


THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST” 


giggled and ran out to the kitchen. Then poor 
Annie heard her sweet, shrill voice. 

“Oh, Jerry! It’s too funny! Annie thought— 
oh, I’ll die laughing—Annie thought you were go¬ 
ing to take her to the dance! Don’t you know? 
You were jollying her about it ? She is all dressed 
up.” 

Jerry laughed uproariously, the loud guffaws 
beating like blows on Annie’s sensitive heart. 

“As if I’d be after takin’ a Ginny when there’s 
a peach handy,” with a killing glance at Elsie. 

“Ginny here, or Ginny there,” exclaimed 
Maggie, her face a shade redder than usual, “she’s 
the lucky gurrul that’s not goin’ wid you, my fine 
fellow. The divil himself ’ud gain nothin’ be your 
company.” 

The young couple departed rather hastily, be¬ 
cause Maggie’s tongue was a bitter weapon. 

Maggie was not highly refined or delicate, but 
she was too tactful to mention the incident to An¬ 
nie or try to console her; so the crushed, timid soul 
fought its battle alone. Only once did either of 
them refer to it. Maggie found her little friend 
sobbing bitterly over the new dress. 

“Don’t cry, dear,” she advised, from the depth 
of hard experience. “When any one hurts ye hit 


MAY FINNEGAN 


229 


them back a whack; they’ll mind the next time an’ 
ye’ll feel better, too.” 

“Oh, oh!” moaned Annie. “Oh, the poor old 
womans! I bad. I think me pretty and spend, oh 
so mooch for the dress.” 

“Well, you little miser, is it that you’re afther 
thinkin’ of?” exclaimed Maggie indignantly. 

On Sunday, when the servants were at dinner, 
Jerry winked broadly around the table, and said 
softly, “Annie, I waited fer you a long time 
Wednesday. Why didn’t you go with me, pretty 
one?” 

“I not pretty,” answered Annie piteously, giv¬ 
ing him one fleeting, humble look. “It is sin to 
lie.” 

“Thrue fer ye, darlin’,” said Maggie, who was 
serving the soup. At that moment she put a ladle- 
full in Jerry’s plate with unnecessary vigor, and 
he drew a scalded hand away with an indignant, 
“Ouch! Mind what you’re about, Maggie.” 

“Arrah, don’t be makin’ a to-do over a little 
burn like that. It’s nothin’, avick, to what you’ll 
get hereafter, plaze God.” 

That was Jerry’s last attempt to be funny at 
Annie’s expense. 

It always seemed strange to Maggie that after 


230 


“THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST’ 


Elsie’s marriage she and Annie were warm 
friends. She was no longer haughty to the little 
waitress. 

“To be sure/’ Maggie remarked to her sister, 
“she has the pride taken out o’ her, the crathure, 
since she got Jerry. But pride or no pride, it isn’t 
meself ’ud trouble aither o’ the two o’ them av I 
wor Annie. But then that kind is never like the 
Irish, though she’s better nor me, God knows— 
barrin’ the nearness.” 

But to Annie, Maggie had no flaw. Although 
she was very respectful to her mistress, it was from 
a sense of duty rather than from love. Mrs. 
Brandt was “my lady,” but it was to Maggie she 
gave her heart. 

“That girl is fascinating, in a way,” remarked 
the jolly, kind-hearted master of the house, to his 
wife one evening after Annie had been excused. 
The Brandts were dining alone—a most uncommon 
occurrence. 

“Dear me!” Mrs. Brandt answered a little 
scornfully, toying languidly with the lace on her 
sleeve. “I didn’t know you cared for that style 
of beauty.” 

“It isn’t beauty. I guess it’s the fact that she 
hasn’t any, to speak of, and yet you want to get 


MAY FINNEGAN 


231 


another look at her. Sort of unearthly look, as 
if she came from Mars or some such place.” 

“Well,” said his wife banteringly, “when a 
man begins to think a maiden is not like other 
girls, even though she’s a servant, it’s rather seri¬ 
ous.” 

And yet in a little while Mrs. Brandt came to 
like having Annie about her more than her own 
maid. Brandt insisted that she had the look of 
one who saw happiness a long way off. His wife 
smiled and said he was getting poetical, but she 
agreed that, “she was a stupid little thing, but 
would be faithful unto death.” 

Perhaps it was the stupidity that recommended 
her to Mrs. Brandt, for the state of things just 
then would have been very patent to the wide¬ 
awake maid. Annie, wrestling all her life with 
the question of bread and butter or, more properly, 
bread alone, knew naught of problems, and the 
visits of the handsome, fair-haired gentleman 
meant no evil to her until she, one day, came sud¬ 
denly down the stairs and found her mistress in 
his arms. She rushed back to her room and told 
her image in the mirror about it, her hands 
clasped over her heart. Wide, shocked eyes gazed 
back at her. 


232 


“THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST 


“Oh, the bad, wicked man!” she gasped, and the 
unwinking eyes agreed with her. 

The next Sunday she counted out some nickels 
from the little drawer in her bureau and bought a 
candle. After Mass she spent a long time before 
the statue of St. Anthony, telling him about it, and 
pleading for her misguided mistress. St. Anthony 
seemed to gaze over her head indifferently, but 
Annie never doubted but that he could and would 
answer her prayer. Only she herself was too sin¬ 
ful to pray for another sinner. 

Sister Rose, in her ministrations about the altar, 
had noted the shabby, isolated-looking creature, 
with the beauty of the love of God in her upturned 
face and tearful eyes. 

“I wonder what it is she wants so much, poor 
little soul! I do hope St. Anthony sees fit to inter¬ 
cede for her.” 

When she went back to the sacristy there stood 
Annie with the candle in her hands. In a timid 
voice and very broken English she explained that 
the candle was for St. Anthony—a sort of bribe. 
Then the tears filled her eyes and fell as she told 
her fears for her mistress. 

“Oh, Sister,” she pleaded, “you good. You pray 
to the good saint for my lady.” 


MAY FINNEGAN 


233 


“We’ll both pray, Annie, and you come to the 
Sisters’ house and see me sometimes, so I’ll know 
what St. Anthony is doing.” 

And Annie went home happy, feeling that her 
case was in good hands. 

That very evening Mrs. Brandt sent for Annie. 
The lady was at her desk. Her cheeks were flushed 
and her eyes feverishly bright. She was not writ¬ 
ing, but biting the end of her penholder savagely. 
A sheet of paper had fallen to the floor. Annie 
saw the word “Oscar” on it. 

Then the “stupid little thing” picked it up and 
thrust it rapidly and silently into her bosom, for 
“Oscar” was the fair-haired gentleman. 

“Annie,” said the lady, “take this letter, and 
drop it in the mail-box on the corner. You under¬ 
stand ?” 

“Yes, lady.” 

“Very well. Get your wraps. And, Annie,” she 
continued nervously, “go out quietly and do not 
tell any one—any one, remember.” 

Then she turned again to the desk, and Annie 
left the room, hurrying to her own. After a 
frightened glance at herself in the mirror she be¬ 
gan to pry the letter open. It was not yet dry and 
opened easily. 


234 


‘THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST” 


“It is sin,” she told herself accusingly. Annie 
had still that horror for sin which unhappily is a 
lost art with many of us. 

The letter was full of unbridled language, and 
ended with a promise to meet him at a certain 
time and place and “leaving the world behind, live 
only for each other.” 

Annie put the letter down with a stupefied look. 
Then she thought of the other letter. She drew it 
out of her dress. It ran: 

“Oscar: I can not do it. Even though Jack 
should get a divorce, as you say, and we could be 
married, I should feel like Guinevere—faithless to 
a good man, and you would always seem a stained 
knight. Though it break my heart and yours, this 
madness must end. 

“Good-by forever, 

“Gwendolen.” 

Hurriedly Annie tore the first letter into tiny 
pieces and put the second—the one prompted by 
Gwendolen’s good angel—into the envelope, a 
prayer of thanksgiving on her lips that she should 
be permitted to save her mistress in spite of her¬ 
self. On the way out she met Mrs. Brandt. 

“Why, Annie,” she whispered, “have you not 
gone? What have you been doing?” 


MAY FINNEGAN 


235 


“I—I—I dressing,” gasped Annie. 

“Well, hurry now; and remember what I told 
you.” 

“Now I haf lied,” thought Annie, “and St. 
Antonie no listen to liar. But Sister Rose, she 
pray,” and comforted with this thought she went 
to sleep. 

For days after that Mrs. Brandt was very 
peevish. One evening at dinner Mr. Brandt re¬ 
marked, “Gwen, it’s funny Oscar never called to 
say good-by to us. He sailed for Europe yester¬ 
day, I hear.” 

The lady gave some sharp answer, which Annie 
did not hear because her soul was down on its 
knees thanking God and St. Anthony. Of course 
she hurried to Sister Rose with the news. 

During these visits Sister Rose learned of the 
ambition of Annie’s life, and it made her look very 
tenderly at the wee heroine. 

“God bless her brave, generous heart,” prayed 
the Sister. 

Annie had been at Brandts for three years now. 
All in the house had learned to love her, but none 
so much as Maggie. Still, it worried Maggie to 
see her run away every week to the bank with al¬ 
most every penny of her pay. She tried every 


236 


THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST*’ 


scheme and argument, but Annie still wore her 
shoes till there were holes in them, and clung to 
her dresses as long as they held together. Maggie 
never suspected how often Annie was tempted to 
buy certain fascinating belts and collars and waists 
for her. How pleasant it would be to give a pres¬ 
ent to her beloved Maggie! But she put the money 
back into her pocket. 

“No,” she said, “I will only think of the poor 
old men and women.” 

One day a dreadful thing happened. The 
bank that held Annie’s money failed. With a 
white, drawn face, she poured out the story to 
Maggie. 

“It’s turrible, darlin’, so it is, but never mind. 
You’ve got your good place here, and shure I’ll 
never see you want.” 

“For me,” sobbed Annie, “I not care, but the 
poor old men and women.” 

“Are you going crazy entirely, alanna? Shure, 
yourself tould me ye hadn’t either father or 
mother. What are you goin’ on about?” 

“Oh, Maggie, the poor old people in my coun¬ 
try, they so poor—no food—nothing. Five years 
I save for them. I want to make home over there 
so they not haf to beg and suffer, oh, so mooch! 


MAY FINNEGAN 


237 


And now all—all is gone,” she finished, with a 
gesture dramatic with despair. 

“An’ that was what you wor savin’ for, you poor 
little crathure. God forgive me, I called you 
stingy,” exclaimed Maggie, remorsefully. 

In a little while Annie ceased to talk of her loss, 
but Maggie noticed her fail from day to day. One 
day she did not come down. Mrs. Brandt ordered 
that she be given whatever she wanted, and the 
warm-hearted master sent for a trained nurse, re¬ 
fusing to discuss sending her to a hospital. 

In the afternoon several callers—ladies of the 
Vere de Vere type, who lived and moved and had 
their being according to aristocratic etiquette, were 
shocked by a novel sight: Maggie, with a mirac¬ 
ulously red nose and brimming eyes, in the white 
apron and cap of the maid, the latter rather askew, 
and both very much too small. She had donned 
these as proper for the front part of the house. In 
this guise Maggie stood in the half-open door pol¬ 
ishing off her already polished face with one arm, 
and beckoning furiously to her mistress with the 
other. 

“Come right in, Maggie,” called out jolly Mr. 
Brandt, enjoying his wife’s discomfiture and the 
stiff disapproval of the other ladies. 


238 


THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST” 


Thus encouraged Maggie marched in. 

“Av ye plaze, ma’am,” she said, and there were 
tears in her eyes and voice, “Annie’s worse, an’ 
dinner’ll be late, ma’am, because I must stay wid 
her.” 

“Oh, I say, that’s too bad,” muttered Mr. 
Brandt, the fun gone out of his face. 

“I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Brandt, “perhaps 
I’d better go.” 

“No,” answered Maggie, decisively, “ye’d do no 
good.” 

And with that Maggie was gone. 

Father O’Reilly soon arrived. 

How childish Annie looked lying there! She 
was not in pain, but there was a troubled look on 
her little face. 

“Father, I thought I was pretty and wasted the 
money for the poor old men and women, and now 
—and now—they must go hungry. Every time I 
eat the good things here I think of them. God 
let the money be lost because I was bad. Is He 
angry, Father?” 

Father O’Reilly took her hand and put the cruci¬ 
fix into it. 

“My child, do you think the One who died like 
that for us would be a hard master ?” 


MAY FINNEGAN 


239 


The dying eyes looked long and lovingly at the 
crucifix. 

“I think He not angry, but He not let me make 
home—for the poor old people because I bad.” 

“I will say nothing to make her less meek,” 
thought the priest. “Let her go to God clothed in 
her beautiful humility.” 

The end was near and he called in Sister Rose, 
and Maggie, and the other servants, to witness her 
last communion and say the prayers for the dying. 
Just after the Angel of Death came, Elsie slipped 
into the room. When she saw that Annie w r as 
gone, she sank sobbing beside the bed. 

“Oh, Annie, Annie, I treated you so bad and 
you were an angel! She saved my baby’s life when 
I didn’t have money for doctor or medicine. 
Many’s the ten dollars she gave me, poor dear, and 
many a night she stayed up with me. I was too 
proud to tell you when I found she didn’t, because 
I had laughed at her. Oh, I wonder if she knows 
how sorry I am and ever will be!” 

“My dear child,” said Father O’Reilly gently, 
“show your sorrow and gratitude by praying for 
her soul.” 

On the way out he met Mrs. Brandt. 

“How is she ? she asked. 


240 


THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST” 


“Better than ever before. She has gone to her 
God/’ 

“Oh!” with a little shriek. “How very sad! 
And so sudden! I shall go up and see her, though 
I dread to do it,” and she shuddered daintily. 
“Death is always awful and she never was very 
pretty, you know. She was a stupid little thing, 
but very faithful, poor dear.” 

Father O’Beilly looked down into the proud face 
of the lady with a look that made her uncomfort¬ 
able. In truth he was not thinking of the lady, 
but of the gentle, humble saint whose eyes he had 
closed, and he said within himself, “The last shall 
be first, and the first last.” 


After Twenty-five Years 

BY FLORENCE GILMORE 

The waiting-room was crowded, noisy, dirty. 
The tired clerk at the Bureau of Information, 
never the most amiable of men, looked cross, and 
answered his questioners gruffly, until an old 
woman, small and thin, carrying a time-worn 
satchel and a large bundle, went up to his desk 
timidly but confidingly. He talked to her gently 
for several minutes, then pointed out the only va¬ 
cant seat. What could she have said to have won 
so much attention ? 

Following his directions she found the empty 
place, and sank into it with a sigh of relief, put¬ 
ting her bag at her feet, but keeping the bundle on 
her lap. Having settled herself comfortably, as if 
for a long wait, she watched the busy throng with 
keen interest. There were men, many of them hur¬ 
ried and anxious, others loitering with the evident 
purpose of killing time; women, unused to travel, 
worried lest they miss their trains and worn with 
the care of little children; a few young girls, well- 

dressed and full of life and laughter; all these 
241 


242 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 


and many more passed and repassed, and she 
looked and wondered who they were, and where 
they were going, and “if they are as happy as I 
am,” she said to herself. 

Her reverie was interrupted by a little boy at 
her side. 

“Oh, mamma, I am so tired. Can’t we get on 
the train again? When shall we see papa?” he 
whimpered. 

Untying her bundle, the old lady took out a 
cookie and gave it to him. 

“Thank the lady,” commanded his mother, 
which he did shyly, and then she added: “You 
are very kind. The children are tired and cross.” 

She was a hearty, happy-looking woman, with a 
child on her lap and another scarcely older than 
the boy seated beside her. 

“Little boys are always hungry. I know because 
I had one of my own,” and the old lady brought 
forth more cakes, one for each of the other chil¬ 
dren. But her eyes wandered back to the boy and 
watched him tenderly. 

“I’m going to see my son for the first time in 
twenty-five years,” she said, unable to keep her joy 
to herself. 

“My, my,” said the younger woman, “what a 


FLORENCE GILMORE 


243 


long time! I am on the way to Denver. My hus¬ 
band has a good position there and has a nice lit¬ 
tle house ready for us. He’s been there over a 
year and I’ve been waiting at mother’s until he 
could send for us. He’s so anxious to see the chil¬ 
dren. They do grow a lot in a year, you know. 
To wait twenty-five years must be awful.” Then 
after a pause. “When will your train go ? We have 
to spend two more hours here.” 

“In about an hour. I just told the kind gentle¬ 
man at the desk that I am going to San Francisco 
to visit my son, and that it is twenty-five years 
since I have seen him, not since he was a mere 
boy, and I asked him to tell me when it is time for 
my train to leave because Harry would be so 
disappointed if I missed it. ‘Indeed I will, 
ma’am,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t want my mother 
to miss her train if she were coming to see 
me.’ ” 

The old lady—Mrs. Johnston she said her name 
was—lifted the tired boy upon her lap, and he 
was asleep in a very few minutes. “It doesn’t 
seem long since my Harry used to creep into my 
arms when he was tired playing. Oh, those were 
happy days!” she sighed. 

Seeing that she loved to talk about her “boy,” 


244 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 


the young woman asked kindly how it was that 
she had not seen him for so many years. 

“Well,” began Mrs. Johnston, deliberately, set¬ 
tling herself to tell the whole story, “Harry was 
a smart boy, if I do say so. He was always at the 
head of his class, and loved his books. ‘He will 
make his way in the world, never fear/ his teacher 
used to say to me,” and her thin voice vibrated 
with pride. “When he grew up he did not like 
Pleasantville—it’s a very small place—and he 
begged me to let him go West to ‘make his for¬ 
tune/ as he said. ‘Father left you enough to keep 
you comfortable and by-and-by when I am rich 
you shall come and live with me/ was his pet argu¬ 
ment. Well, at last I yielded, for I could see he 
would never be contented where he was. It seems 
like yesterday that I packed his clothes into the 
little hair trunk which had been my mother’s. I 
thought it would kill me, for he was all I had. 
Poor Harry!” she went on to herself, “he felt 
bad, too, but when he caught me wiping away the 
tears that would come, he smiled bravely and said, 
‘Never mind, mother; I will write often and come 
home once a year or maybe oftener.’ At last he 
was off, and I was left alone, all alone.” 

Mrs. Johnston wiped her eyes furtively, but re- 


FLORENCE OILMORE 


24 5 


membering where she was going soon smiled 
again. 

“Did he never go back to see you?” asked her 
new friend, half-indignant, half-incredulous. 

“No,” and then, motherlike, she hastened to ex¬ 
cuse him. “At first he earned barely enough to 
live on, and had none to spend for the long trip 
back to Pleasantville. He had gone way out West 
to the mines, and it would have cost a mint of 
money to come home. I could never have afforded 
the money myself, but Harry sent me a much 
larger check than I needed.” Then she added 
proudly, “He was always a generous boy.” 

After a few minutes the young mother, seeing 
that the dear old lady was afraid of tiring her 
talking of Harry, asked in an interested tone: 
“Did he like the West?” 

“At first he was, oh so homesick! He wrote 
often, sometimes twice a week, and his letters 
were full of questions about ‘dear Pleasantville/ 
and of longing to see his ‘little mother/ as he 
called me, and though he had so little money he 
would save a few dollars every month and send 
them to me to buy some luxury. Once he told me 
to get a new bonnet, and another time he said— 
I recall the very words after all these years—‘I 


246 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 


remember the stove in your room never heated it 
comfortably. This money is to buy a new one/ 
Now wasn't that kind of the dear boy, and he 
working so hard for the little he had?" 

For a few minutes they sat in silence, the young 
mother looking thoughtfully at the little boy 
asleep in her new friend's arms. 

“After a while," Mrs. Johnston began again in 
a sadder tone, “after a while he became so busy 
that he had very little time to spare for his old 
mother, though he always wrote a good, long, lov¬ 
ing letter at Christmas time, and sent me a lovely 
gift—but that was all. How well I remember the 
first time he ‘snatched a moment at the office' (he 
lived in San Francisco then) ‘to wish me a happy 
Christmas,' and the note was written with a type¬ 
writer and only the name was in his writing. 
Somehow I cried over that letter. It didn't seem 
like it came from him at all, and it was so care¬ 
less like. But then I am a foolish old woman, 
and ought to have been glad that he had a stenog¬ 
rapher at all—he that had no start in life." 

“Except a good home and a kind mother," said 
the other, with a note of indignation in her voice 
which her companion did not notice. 

“All these years," she continued, “I have knit 


FLORENCE GILMORE 


247 


him the nice warm gray socks he used to like, and 
sent them to him in October. I work on them a lit¬ 
tle while every evening, and think of the happy 
times when he was a boy and was so fond of me 
—though of course he’s fond of me still or he 
would never have sent for me. Then sometimes,” 
she rattled on, "I make cookies just like those I 
gave your children, and express them to him, for 
he always was the greatest boy you ever saw for 
cookies! Judge Simmons, who lives near me at 
home, knows all about everything that happens 
over the whole country, and he says that my Harry 
is one of the greatest men in California, and gives 
a great deal of money to the poor and to colleges 
and art schools. There aren’t many boys like 
Harry,” and her dear old face fairly beamed. 

Instinctively her companion glanced at the gen¬ 
tle old mother’s rather shabby and old-fashioned 
and unmistakably home-made clothes, and her 
heart hardened, but interested in spite of herself 
she questioned her further. 

“Did he ever get married?” she asked. 

“Not until he was almost forty. He wrote me 
a long letter, and told me how beautiful and good 
his Marie was, and she sent me her love. Now, 
wasn’t that nice of her? Well,” she went on, not 


248 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 


waiting for an answer, “she died three years later, 
and Harry was heartbroken. He got homesick just 
like when he first went away, and said he was com¬ 
ing to make me a little visit. As soon as I got 
that letter I put clean curtains in his room, and 
then, thinks I, he is used to such grand things, I 
mustn’t let the old place look too shabby, so I 
painted white the willow chair he used to sit in. 
You see I had always kept his room just as he left 
it, kind of hoping he’d surprise me some time— 
but he never did,” she added slowly, with a little 
sigh. 

“Well,” she resumed, “I was telling you about 
fixing up his room. I worked in it for three days, 
and there wasn’t a prettier place in Pleasantville 
when I was through. I put my best quilt on the 
bed, and the best cover on the table. The stove 
was rusty and dingy, so I took it down, as he 
would not need it in summer.” 

“You took it down!” exclaimed the young 
woman, horrified. 

“It was small and I did it slowly,” Mrs. John¬ 
ston answered apologetically. “I couldn’t afford 
to have Sam Hudson do it, because I had bought 
some new things to dress up the house and the 
money was all gone. But it did look lovely!” 


FLORENCE GILMORE 


249 


There was a long pause. “Business must be a 
strange, cruel thing when it keeps sons from their 
mothers and disappoints them so. The summer 
was well-nigh gone before I had another letter. 
Harry was sorry, but business kept him away. I 
closed the room again, and somehow I always felt 
sore and hurt about it all until a week ago.” Here 
her face brightened wonderfully. “He wrote me 
himself in a shaky kind of handwriting. Wait, I 
will show you the letter.” 

Reaching down into her roomy pocket she 
brought it forth and unfolded it with trembling 
hands. “Mother dear,” she read, “I am sick, and 
want you so much. The doctor says I must not 
go home, the trip would be very hard on me. 
Could you come here? Oh, mother, come if you 
can. I love you, and you are all I have. Your 
loving Harry.” 

The eyes of both filled with tears and the 
younger woman began to think she had judged 
him harshly. 

Just at that moment they were interrupted by a 
boy in uniform. 

“The clerk told me to take you to your train. 
It will be here in ten minutes,” he said. With a 
hurried good-by to the mother, and a farewell kiss 


250 


AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS 


for the boy who had slept in her lap, she followed 
him. 

* * * * * 

“San Francisco,” the porter called at last. Too 
happy to think of her weariness, the feeble old 
woman hurried with the crowd out of the car into 
the crowded station. “Carriage, carriage 1” 
screamed a driver as she drew near. 

“I must be stylish so he won’t be ashamed of 
me,” she thought, and took it. 

“I’m so glad now that I have always been so 
saving of my best black silk; it wouldn’t be so 
good now if I hadn’t. Oh, how happy he will be 
to see me!” and she laughed softly to herself. 

At last the carriage drew up before an elegant 
mansion. 

* * * * * 

A few minutes later a man leaving the house 
found an old lady lying face downward on the 
marble doorstep, and lifting her in his arms found 
that she was dead. 

There was crape on the door! 


The Agnosticism of 
Dolly Rosa 

BY KARL KLAXTON 

On the fender a frilled nightgown lay toasting 
to the right temperature for a little girl after a 
hot bath. Curled up like a capital “N” written 
backhand, Dolly Rosa sat on the hearth-rug wait¬ 
ing for it. 

A painter in quest of a model of child simplicity 
and innocence would have stayed in that nursery. 
With her chin resting on her knees and her podgy 
hands clasped round her shins, Dolly Rosa looked 
as pretty a nymph-baby as ever basked on fairy 
shore. In the fire-glow her pink and white body 
glistened like sunlit apple-blossom; her curls, damp¬ 
ly clinging to dimpled shoulders, gleamed like 
golden seaweed on rose marble. Only the ominous 
glitter in her blue baby eyes disturbed the perfect 
peace of the picture. 

The nightgown smoked; nurse’s vigilance was 
strangely at fault. She was not busy, but per¬ 
plexed. The putting on of the nightgown would 
raise the question of night-prayers. For six days 

in succession she had had to report to the governess 
251 


252 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 

Dolly’s Rosa’s refusal to bend her knees to Heaven. 
She liked Miss Bryce well enough to shrink from 
worrying her. 

Miss Bryce was more than worried—the change 
in her pupil was alarming her. Only a fortnight 
before, the Bishop had been edified by Dolly Rosa’s 
piety and amazed at her precocious knowledge of 
Scripture. How she would not even open her Cate¬ 
chism, while as for the Bible stories to which she 
had once listened with avidity, she expressed utter 
disbelief in them. On Sunday she had gone to 
church under protest, and declared her intention 
of never entering a place of worship when she grew 
up. And when questioned about the sermon, of 
which she could usually give a better account than 
her elders, she admitted having paid no attention 
to it. 

The scorched nightgown drove nurse desperate. 
“She wants,” she said, “either a dose of physic or 
another good smacking. If I had to deal with her, 
she would get both, to make sure.” 

Miss Bryce rejected this advice. Though quieter 
than before, Dolly Rosa was in good health; she 
jumped and skipped as actively as ever. Nurse’s 
alternative to physic would assume that childish 
perversity was the root of the evil. But Dolly 


KARL KLAXTON 


253 


Rosa’s rebellion showed no sign of such perver¬ 
sity—neither sullen silence nor petulant temper. 
Its dispassionate calmness savored of adult, rea- 
soned-out adherence to principle. And it was con¬ 
fined to matters of religion, whereas perversity would 
have affected her whole conduct. As nurse had im¬ 
plied, she had received one smacking, given for 
what had looked like perversity. But the present 
case was different—a case, apparently, of intellec¬ 
tual conviction. Miss Bryce had read history;-she 
remembered that heresy had often flourished under 
persecution. 

But, appalling as was this irreligion in an eight- 
year-old baby of the “devout female sex,” she dared 
not inform her mistress of it. If she did, the 
blame of her charge’s falling away would probably 
be laid on herself. 

Mrs. Manners’ own religion was that of the ordi¬ 
nary society woman; it interfered with neither her 
engagements nor her pleasures. She went to church 
as a consequence of her bringing-up and because it 
was “the right thing” to do. But she thought far 
more of appearances than of right. She paid God’s 
house the compliment of being the most fashion¬ 
ably dressed woman in it, her pew was gorgeous 
with polished brass and deep-piled plush; she relig- 


254 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


iously headed every subscription, and always 
dropped gold into the plate. The altar in her bed¬ 
room, surmounted by a large ivory Christ, with 
rubies to represent the five wounds, was a dream in 
exquisitely carved oak; the Madonna beside it 
beamed sweet, maternal smiles. If the sharon- 
wood beads on the “prie-dieu” were flecked with 
somewhat ancient dust, their presence helped the 
sentimental booklets which formed her only spirit¬ 
ual reading, to make her feel virtuous. Her morn¬ 
ing and night prayers rarely lasted more than 
a minute, but the big velvet cushion could be 
trusted to retain for hours the impression of 
her knees. 

Her chief pride, after her dress and entertain¬ 
ments, was the up-bringing of her children. To 
hear the Bishop say, “What a good mother that girl 
and boy must have!” was an easy and pleasant rem¬ 
edy of scruples in other matters. True, she at¬ 
tended very little to the children herself—that 
would have taken up too much time, and was out 
of date. But she was most careful in her choice of 
servants. With such excellent persons as nurse and 
Miss Bryce in charge, her duty might reasonably 
have ended with her having Roy and Dolly Rosa 
occasionally down to dessert. But when she dined 


KARL KLAXTON 


255 


at home they always came down, in spite of nurse’s 
and their father’s grumbling. She knew that the 
hour was late for children to be out of bed, but 
what other time had she to see Dolly Rosa? She 
did more than her duty to Roy; she saw a great 
deal of him and often had him to tea in the draw¬ 
ing-room. She petted him so much that her father 
and her husband both accused her of spoiling him. 
But he was such a winsome little fellow, and his 
curls were so much admired. 

Nurse hinted that he could be very, very naughty 
—as naughty as his sister was good. But boys 
would be boys and were so different from girls. She 
liked boys to show a masterful spirit. They had 
to make their own way in the world. She often 
pictured her darling as lording it over his fellows 
at Eton, and as making all bow before him in the 
“crack” cavalry regiment of which her father was 
Colonel. At any rate, she could not be accused of 
spoiling Dolly Rosa—her husband, with male in¬ 
consistency, complained that she made too little of 
her. But it was wrong to make too much of little 
girls; it puffed them up and made them vain. And 
it would never do to have Dolly Rosa to tea in the 
drawing-room. Girls were sharper than boys, and 
understood too much of the conversation. No, 


256 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


Dolly Rosa was going on nicely enough for “well” 
to be let alone. She was a good little thing and 
piously inclined. The Bishop’s astonishment at her 
proficiency in religious knowledge was alone suf¬ 
ficient to show that ample duty was being done by 
her. 

Such were Mrs. Manners’ meditations up to a 
week before the time of my story. Her views of 
Dolly Rosa had since received a shock. But she did 
not know all, and Miss Bryce dreaded to enlighten 
her. 

What could Miss Bryce say? That Dolly Rosa 
would not say her prayers? That would conceal 
more than half the truth and only invite an im¬ 
patient “Make her.” There was doubtless a way— 
according to nurse, the back of a hair-brush was 
omnipotent—of making the most hardened juve¬ 
nile unbeliever go through external forms. But 
external forms were not interior conversion. 

Would such a woman as Mrs. Manners under¬ 
stand Dolly Rosa’s frame of mind? Did Miss 
Bryce herself understand it? Could her sense of 
humor allow her to call a short-frocked baby an 
atheist ? She shuddered at the word. Atheists were 
dreadful people, past even being prayed for. 

Yet what else was Dolly Rosa ? With relief, Miss 


KARL KLAXTON 


257 


Bryce remembered some sceptics who had been 
converted to belief in religion. She racked her 
brain to recollect what they had been called. 

"I have it,” she said, as she tucked Dolly Rosa 
up in bed. “She must be an agnostic” The term 
was mysterious—she could not for the world have 
told in what it differed from “atheist.” But it 
sounded different, and allowed some ground for 
hope. 

“Something must be done,” she sighed. “She 
has said no prayers for a week.” 

For all her drastic proposals, nurse was a kindly 
little creature. And she had not been ten years in 
service without learning something of human na¬ 
ture. 

“Tell the master about it,” she counseled. “He 
is very fond of her and, I’ll answer for it, under¬ 
stands her better than the missis does.” 

Miss Bryce started. The idea that Mr. Manners 
was an appreciable quantity in the household was 
new to her. 

“You may be right,” she said, doubtfully. “I 
will think about it.” 

***** 

Till the baby brother arrived, four years before, 
Dolly Rosa’s childhood had been lonely. Hot that 


258 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


she was ever left alone; when nurse was not attend¬ 
ing to her body, Miss Bryce was ministering to her 
soul. And her numberless maiden aunts, who all 
took a godmother’s interest in her welfare, were al¬ 
ways dropping in to help with her education. 
But no one, except papa, who did not count, 
seemed to think that she needed a child playmate. 
The aunts held with mamma that little girls, 
if kept to themselves, picked up no childish 
naughtiness. 

Far from being oppressed by her loneliness, Dolly 
Rosa was not even aware of it. The force of “It 
is not good for man to be alone,” is not felt by little 
maids of eight. Dolly Rosa knew naught of other 
children’s lot except from hearing it compared un¬ 
favorably with her own. So—blessed bliss of ig¬ 
norance !—she was content. 

Her surroundings were comfort itself. The spa¬ 
cious nursery was well-appointed, her stock of toys 
and picture-books inexhaustible. The garden was 
a floral paradise, she was often taken for a drive in 
the carriage. And Miss Bryce was by no means as 
narrow as she appeared to be. If, with an eye to 
the buttered side of her bread, she obeyed the let¬ 
ter of her mistress’ instructions, she had her own 
opinion of their spirit. She had genuine sympathy 


KARL KLAXTON 


259 


with her charge and did her best to fill her life with 
interest. 

Dolly Rosa was taught to seek her only happiness 
in being good. And goodness was understood to 
mean self-effacing obedience and the faithful per¬ 
formance of her little daily duties. So well had she 
learned her lesson that to wait for commands and 
then fulfil them at once and without question had 
become second nature to her. 

Her Eden was one into which no shadow of evil 
entered. If it was Adamless, it contained no ser¬ 
pent, and apple trees were rigorously excluded from 
it. The little Eve had no scope for sin—no temp¬ 
tations either from within or from without. No 
one ever told her that she was pretty or clever; 
even the Bishop’s praise, conveyed to her strictly as 
an encouragement to further goodness, was care¬ 
fully expurgated of all incitement to childish van¬ 
ity. Papa’s petting, all that she ever received, had 
no chance of spoiling her. Its furtiveness sug¬ 
gested a guilty conscience, and mamma studiously 
explained that fathers were a foolish race of men. 
No conflict between self and duty racked her peace¬ 
ful little soul. What spiritual writers call the hu¬ 
man spirit had been crushed in its beginnings, and 
her surroundings contained nothing with which 


260 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 

she could get into mischief. Her obedience worked 
like a well-oiled machine in a dustless vacuum. 
There was nothing that could possibly clog it. 

Mrs. Manners’ pet doctrine was that children 
should receive no adventitious rewards for being 
good. Her daughter was trained to regard her 
home, her health, her meals, her necessary rai¬ 
ment (pride in dress was sternly discouraged), her 
playthings, the garden, the carriage, the care taken 
of her by her parents, nurse, and governess, as a 
more than ample recompense for her poor strivings 
after perfection. This glorification of her natural 
environment helped her not only to feel that vir¬ 
tue was its own reward, but also to make further 
efforts to repay Heaven for having given her so 
much the better of the bargain. It gave her fresh 
happiness—the blessedness of those who do not ex¬ 
pect. The habit of looking for nothing was strong 
when she emerged from babyhood. By the time 
her socks and strap-shoes gave way to stockings and 
boots, it had become an obsession. It gathered such 
force from the Bible stories, Catechism lessons, and 
moral homilies, all chosen by Miss Bryce to that 
end, that, if any one had offered her bon-bons for 
being “so good a little girl” she would have been 
hurt, if not insulted. 


KARL KLAXTON 


261 


Roy’s birth made no difference, except to bring 
her new elements of joy. The baby, in his crib, in 
his bath, in his long lawn-clothes surmounted by 
silks or ermine cloak, stirred in her that maternal 
tenderness which springs in all things feminine. 
She was never so proud as when allowed the privi¬ 
lege of nursing him or given the honor of mounting 
guard when his bassinette was put out in the sun. 

Then the day he was “breeched”! It was bright 
with the glory of a church fete. All the aunts came 
to breakfast, after which there was a procession to 
the nursery, like those which took place in the ca¬ 
thedral. The bath was over; the baby, in a real 
shirt, was tossing his long ringlets with impatience 
to don the insignia of boyhood. With sisterly pride, 
Dolly Rosa watched each garment put on, till her 
brother strutted across the floor, a “Little Lord 
Fauntleroy” in miniature. The suit was of crim¬ 
son velvet braided with gold, and trimmed round 
the collar, wristbands, and knees with the daintiest 
filigree lace that money could buy. If the trim¬ 
ming—no such lace had ever been bought for her — 
caused Dolly Rosa a momentary p&ng, she stran¬ 
gled the thought as unworthy. And nurse made 
matters right by reminding her that her turn 
would come when her hair was put up. 


262 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 

But the ensuing months were a time of tragedy 
—a period of doubt and mental torture. 

Dolly Rosa’s heartache began with the order that 
her brother was to be called “Master” Roy. She 
was double his present age, yet no one had ad¬ 
dressed her as “miss,” except to make a reprimand 
more emphatic. 

The seed, once sown, soon germinated. The 
homage paid to Master Roy by mamma and the 
aunts in spite of his appalling naughtiness, shook 
her faith in the fitness of things and sapped her 
first principles. He perpetrated mischief of which 
she had never dreamed; disobedience at which she 
shuddered was not merely unrebuked, but palliated. 
She was brought face to face at eight with a prob¬ 
lem which has puzzled thinkers from the begin¬ 
ning—the prosperity of the wicked in this world. 
And her notions of life hereafter were too abstract 
to solve it satisfactorily. 

The situation as viewed by her in the concrete was 
this. She was the good, Roy the wicked. Yet Heaven 
not only gave him the same natural environment as 
she had, but allowed him to take greater advantage 
of it. He did far more as he liked in the house than 
she dared do; he treated the nursery, the garden, 
the toys, the picture-books, as his exclusive prop- 


KARL KLAXTON 


263 


erty; he bullied her into giving him full control of 
their joint games. If he disapproved of nursery 
diet, his petulant protest brought from the dining¬ 
room dainties hitherto banned as unwholesome for 
her; if he went for a drive, the coachman took the 
direction desired by “Master Roy.” And, far from 
his virtue being considered its own reward, his most 
dilatory obedience was a pretext for a grant of sweets 
and pocket-money. Nay, he often got the sweets 
beforehand as a bribe. And whether he obeyed or 
not he was always mamma’s “darling, good boy,” 
praised in the drawing-room for his beauty and 
cleverness, excluded by no iniquity from dessert. 
“No dessert” had sometimes been Dolly Rosa’s 
punishment for mere forgetfulness. On those same 
days Roy had been more naughty than usual; yet 
he was allowed to gobble fruit till he felt a “pain.” 

Dolly Rosa’s conviction that her past life had been 
a mistake was brought to a sudden head. Mamma 
came one night to the nursery and, with pointed 
reference to Roy’s tendency to wander beyond the 
garden, told a story of a little boy whose disobedi¬ 
ence had led to a violent end. He had been told to 
stay indoors, but had gone out, lost his way, and 
been eaten by the same wolf that had devoured 
Little Red Riding-hood. 


264 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


Roy listened to this tale with such startled, star¬ 
ing eyes that mamma felt sure it had made the 
desired impression. But she had dwelt too much 
on the fun enjoyed by the truant before he met the 
wolf. After her departure, Roy confided to his 
sister his intention of running away on the mor¬ 
row. 

“If oo tells any one,” he warned her, “Fll pince 
oo and pull oos ’air.” 

Dolly Rosa was horrified. On her knees, she 
implored him not to tempt Heaven and imperil his 
eternal salvation by such a crime. Though at last 
he promised, she felt sure that he did so only from 
fear that she might betray him. 

She rose next morning with big black rings 
round her eyes, and nurse gave her a seidlitz pow¬ 
der. She hated powders. 

Roy’s disappearance was discovered a few min¬ 
utes after breakfast. Confusion reigned; Mr. Man¬ 
ners telephoned to his head clerk to expect him an 
hour later than usual. The house was searched 
from attic to basement; every cranny and corner 
capable of holding a small boy’s body was ran¬ 
sacked. Mrs. Manners flew to the well, and was 
sure that the shadow at the bottom was the corpse 
of her missing pet. Though the gardener raked 


KARL KLAXTON 


2C5 


up the mud with a elothes-prop, she was not con¬ 
vinced, but insisted on his descending into the 
water. 

Meanwhile, nurse, governess, papa, and the 
whole army of aunts were scouring the neighbor¬ 
ing streets and startling placid green-grocers with 
questions as to whether a little boy was not hidden 
under the counter. But their efforts were unsuc¬ 
cessful, and mamma lost her temper. She de¬ 
scribed papa as “not half a man” and sternly bade 
him not show his face again till he had found her 
“poor darling/’ He slunk away and put the mat¬ 
ter in the hands of the police. By lunch-time the 
whole town knew what had happened, and the first 
edition of the Argus reported that several gypsies 
had been arrested on suspicion of kidnapping. 

At times, in spite of smelling-salts and eau de 
cologne, Mrs. Manners collapsed altogether and lay 
prostrate on the sofa, a bundle of shattered nerves. 
Then resentment against the cause of her anxiety 
revived her, and her eyes blazed with wrath. As the 
afternoon wore on, she declared that she would give 
Boy, “Master” Roy no longer, the Spank. She de¬ 
scribed this punishment in such lucid and terrify¬ 
ing terms that Dolly Rosa felt her blood run cold. 
She began almost to hope that her brother would 


266 TEE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 

not be found alive. Where was he, she wondered, if 
the wolf had already finished its meal? At first 
she thought, in hell; but then reflected that he had 
not yet reached the “age of reason.” Could purga¬ 
tory be worse than an existence with no more sit¬ 
ting down for the body, no rising up for the soul ? 
Such ignominy as the Spank would bow her head 
and spirit with everlasting shame. 

At last Mr. Manners telephoned that the truant 
was with him. He had wasted his substance— 
spent a whole shilling riotously on sweets; then he 
had fished for minnows in a brook where no one 
had dreamed of looking for him. He had walked 
into the office, soaked, and was now wrapped up in 
a rug before the fire, but was none the worse for his 
wetting. When dry clothes arrived, he would be 
brought home. 

Her anxiety removed, Mrs. Manners tightened 
her lips and placed her hardest-soled slipper on the 
table. Then, seating herself, she smoothed her 
frock ominously across her knees. The aunts 
watched her blanch and heard her pant as the 
bustle in the hall proclaimed that the fateful mo¬ 
ment had arrived. Dolly Rosa trembled in the 
background, her heart making rapid excursions be¬ 
tween her heart and her boots. 


KARL KLAXTON 


267 


Suddenly the door opened, and little Roy leaped 
right into his mother’s lap. His face beamed with 
smiles, his arms went round her neck, his chubby 
lips smothered her with kisses. 

“Oh, mummy,” he cried, “Fs so glad to det bat. 
But, I has enjoyed myself. It was fine!” 

Alas, for maternal resolutions when an only and 
pet boy is concerned! “Mummy’s” hand went to 
the slipper, indeed, but only to push it out of sight. 
Trouble, anxiety, wrath, all were forgotten; she 
clutched the prodigal in a tearful, convulsive hug. 
The aunts crowded round, kissing and weeping; for 
some minutes Koy was invisible for fluffy heads. 

“You are a naughty little boy,” was papa’s com¬ 
ment—a sentiment which Dolly Rosa shared. 

“How can you be so unnatural, James?” re¬ 
monstrated mamma. “One would think that you 
were sorry to have your son back. My precious! 
was his father cruel to him ? But, never mind, he 
shall come down to dinner. And—and” —this was 
obviously an after-thought—“so shall his sister. 
Why, what is the matter, Dolly Rosa? I declare, 
mother alone seems pleased to see her darling boy 
again. If you look like that, miss, you shall go to 
bed.” 

Dolly Rosa could not tell what was the matter, 


2C>8 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


but she felt that things were not right. She would 
gladly have foregone the dinner. The sight of her 
brother brimming over with merriment, evidently 
glorying in his sin, and detailing his naughtiness 
to an admiring audience, made her heart-sick. Then 
came the “Extra Special” Argus, wit h a big black 
head-line, “MISSING BOY FOUND,” and a 
rough sketch of the culprit himself. Boy’s eyes ex¬ 
panded, his little body swelled with pride, as mam¬ 
ma read aloud the thrilling paragraphs and handed 
the portrait round. 

And how the little wretch did eat! Every dainty 
was thrust on him to make up for his long fast, 
and Dolly Rosa perceived a poetic justice in his 
afterwards being sick. Her own meal had 
been regulated by mamma to suit a childish diges¬ 
tion. 

“Bah!” snapped nurse, forgetting discretion for 
once. “He should have been spanlced” 

“Hush!” warned the governess, who was watch¬ 
ing Dolly Rosa’s face. 

When Roy was in bed, Miss Bryce told the story 
of the Prodigal Son. Her intention was good— 
some justification of the evening’s happenings was 
called for. But Dolly Rosa’s sympathies were 
wholly with the Elder Brother, whose lifelong 


KARL KLAXTON 


269 


goodness had brought him no “first robe,” no 
“ring,” no “fatted calf.” Miss Bryce stigmatized 
him as mean and jealous, and emphasized the 
cause of joy as exceptional. And she pointed out 
that the Prodigal Son had repented. 

This last statement completed the disaster. It 
convinced Dolly Rosa’s quick mind that parables 
were merely edifying stories with no relation to 
every-day life. Repentance sounded well in theory, 
but made no difference in practice. Roy had not 
repented, yet he had enjoyed the equivalent of the 
“fatted calf” just the same. No; whatever par¬ 
ables might affirm, the good things of this world 
were for the wicked and the prodigals as such . 

Prayers that night were a very half-hearted per¬ 
formance. Dolly Rosa felt relieved when the light 
was turned out and she could think. 

She saw her mistake now. Like the prodigal’s 
brother, she had been too uniformly good. Her 
goodness, like his, had been made too cheap, and 
was, consequently, little appreciated. She would 
vary it in future with naughtiness. To-morrow, 
she would imitate Roy and earn the prodigal’s re¬ 
ward. 

***** 

No Dolly Rosa answered the lesson bell next 


270 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


morning. She was already at the brook where her 
brother had found so much fun. 

She had been a little frightened—at first; con¬ 
science was busy, the fear of divine judgments 
strong. But no earthquake happened, no chasm 
yawned at her feet, no thunderbolt fell from the 
blue. The sun shone brightly, the leafage played 
at kisses with the breeze, larks trilled their hearts 
out in the skies, thrushes whistled to all little girls 
without distinction to make the best of the perfect 
spring day. Nature smiled at Dolly Rosa naughty 
as sweetly as she had done at Dolly Rosa good. 

Roy had paddled; she would paddle, too. 05 
went her shoes and stockings, a safety-pin stolen 
from nurse for the purpose held her frocks up out 
of danger. The sight of her bare baby limbs made 
her laugh; it would have made Miss Bryce faint. 
And mamma, who always exclaimed when she 
went near a puddle, would have had a fit. 

A fear gripped her heart; some brown-haired 
beast was stirring in the long grass. She quite ex¬ 
pected the wolf to rise and spring at her. Then 
fear gave place to laughter. It was only a harm¬ 
less cow getting up to see who was disturbing her 
ruminations. 

Ugh! how cold the water was! She dashed her 


KARL KLAXTON 


271 


little toe against a stone, and the bed of the brook 
dropped sharply. When she recovered her balance, 
she was immersed well over her knees, and her 
frocks were floating. The safety-pin had proved 
faithless to its trust. 

She made for the bank, hurt her toe again, then 
retired, crying, into mid-stream. The cow, who 
had never seen a mermaid before, was approaching 
for a closer inspection. Dolly Rosa shrieked; her 
terror read fierceness into the vacant brown eyes. 
And her clothes were soaking up water as a lamp- 
wick sucks up oil. 

The cow was slow-witted and satisfied her curi¬ 
osity slowly. But all things have an end; Dolly 
Rosa crawled at last on to the grass. She stuffed 
her stockings into her pocket, put on her shoes, 
and ran to a stile as fast as the bruised toe would 
allow. 

The sound of a clock striking eleven gave her 
a pang. No one was looking for her. If papa had 
been summoned from his office, he would surely 
have remembered the brook. She sobbed at the 
thought that no one cared and said that she hated 
Roy. The cow had almost frightened her into re¬ 
turning home. She would stay out all day now. 

She limped along the dusty road till the sun had 


272 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 

left the south, then turned, tired out and footsore, 
into a church-yard. The sight of neglected graves 
was too much for her; she, like the dead, was for¬ 
gotten. A farmer’s wife found her weeping as if 
her heart would break. 

Kindly Mrs. Hodge took her to her house, dried 
her clothes, bathed her toe, and gave her some 
buns and milk. Dolly Rosa cheered up wonder¬ 
fully, but cried afresh when she had put on one 
stocking. The other was gone. She must have 
dragged it from her pocket with her handker¬ 
chief. 

“Never mind, duckie,” said Mrs. Hodge. 
“Mother will not be angry. She will be only too 
glad to see her little girl again. My Pattie plays 
truant now and then, and when she’s gone I sez 
I’ll slap the life out of her. But when she comes 
back, bless you, all I can do is to kiss her. And her 
daddy makes such a fuss over her that she runs off 
again next day.” 

Dolly Rosa’s tears dried like magic. Pattie was 
a girl; sex evidently made no difference to the 
prodigal’s welcome. She thought of the reception 
given to Roy, and her face broke out into smiles. 

She gratefully accepted Mrs. Hodge’s offer to 
escort her to the last street-corner. Her spirits rose 


KARL KLAXTON 


273 


with every mile of road. The musical tinkle of the 
front-door bell was an echo of the singing in her 
heart. 

Nurse’s grim greeting stopped the singing. 
“Your frock all spoiled/’ she snapped, “and only 
one stocking! I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes. 
Miss Manners. Stay where you are. I will tell 
your mamma that you have come.” 

Dolly Rosa shivered with worse than cold as 
she waited in the hall. If she had only deferred 
her return till papa had come home! She could 
then have fallen on her knees and said, “Father, 
I have sinned against Heaven and before thee.” 
But now - 

“Come up here, you naughty girl. Your mam¬ 
ma is waiting for you in her bedroom.” 

She saw nurse waving something white—her 
nightgown. Very slowly she mounted the stairs, 
and nurse proceeded to undress her on the land¬ 
ing. 

“Am I to go to bed ?” she asked piteously. The 
day was far from spent, and her memories of long 
sleepless evenings, with the western sun shining 
soft, sad reproach through the blinds, made the 
punishment of “bed” a very real one. 

Nurse silently went on undoing hooks, buttons, 



274 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


and tapes. Then, gathering the nightgown into 
a ring, she popped it over the curly head. 

“I am so thirsty,” pleaded the child, as the 
snow-white folds fell around her. 

“Come along,” said nurse, moving her toward 
the door. “You’ll get something hot in there.” 

This reply sounded enigmatical. “Something 
hot” was the usual phrase for a warm, spiced cur¬ 
rant-drink given, unknown to mamma, as a special 
treat at bedtime. 

Despite this suggestion of hope—the drink was 
allowed only when nurse was very pleased with her 
—Dolly Eosa lingered at the door. But nurse bun¬ 
dled her in. 

In her night-attire she looked so sweet, so inno¬ 
cent, so St. Agnes-like, that Miss Bryce thought of 
the “white-robed army of martyrs.” But the aunts 
frowned blackly, as at one who had fallen away 
from grace and forfeited the respect of all right- 
thinking women. But blackest of all frowned 
mamma as she rose from the “prie-dieu,” like a 
chosen priestess of the avenging Furies. She 
seated herself, smoothed her frock as Dolly Eosa 
had seen it smoothed once before, took up the same 
slipper as had been pushed out of Eoy’s sight. 

Every word of mamma’s burned itself into Dolly 


KARL KLAXTON 


275 


Rosa’s brain. Her escapade was treated as if it 
had preceded her brother’s and been a direct in¬ 
centive to it. “Now we know,” fumed Mrs. Man¬ 
ners, “where Roy learned his naughtiness. It is 
you who set him the bad example. Bring her here, 
nurse—I must do my duty, for the sake of my boy. 
Stay, Roy; I will show you what you will get if you 
run away again.” 

Dolly Rosa reeled. She would have reminded her 
mother of the wolf story which had put truancy 
into the boy*s head. But her tongue seemed glued 
to the roof of her mouth, she was going in nurse’s 
arms toward the smoothed frock. She looked ap¬ 
pealingly at the Madonna, despairingly at the ago¬ 
nized Christ. But the latter gave no sign, the 
former went on smiling. 

Then, on the same knee that had been Roy’s 
throne of welcome, Roy’s sister felt as if the world 
were ending in fire. Nurse approved of the 
severity as a preventive against chill; the aunts, as 
a salutary lesson for Roy. Now, as ever, Roy seemed 
to be the chief object of consideration. 

For hours after being tucked into bed, a little 
girl writhed and moaned with anguish. Her smart 
soon lost its sting, but the shame and the bitter 
sense of injustice remained. No mother, not an 


276 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


aunt, came to kiss her good-night and forgive her. 
But in the darkness two strong arms coiled round 
her and remained till she fell asleep. They were 
papa’s. 

Next day she refused to say her prayers. She 
performed every other duty with the old machine¬ 
like precision, she even played with Roy as if noth¬ 
ing had happened. This last was hard, as the little 
tyrant was in a taunting mood and did not spare 
her his jeers. 

But faith was gone—faith human and divine. 
There was no order, no design, in the universe; no 
eternal fitness of things; no sign of an all-wise, all- 
just Providence. Life had no meaning; it was an 
insoluble mystery, to be endured with patience, 
but without hope. One thought alone saved her 
soul from utter wreck—the certainty that, if papa 
had been at home, she would have received a less 
unpleasantly warm welcome. 

* * * * * 

Miss Bryce took nurse’s advice and informed 
Mr. Manners next day. He found little difficulty 
in convincing Dolly Rosa. 

First, he showed her a pictorial representation 
of the Blessed Trinity and asked if she could see 
a woman there. From her negative reply he de- 


KARL KLAXTON 


277 


duced that divine justice was in no way com¬ 
promised by her mother’s mistake. Secondly, he 
pointed out that, as the parable of the Prodigal 
Son said nothing about prodigal daughters, its 
truth was unaffected by her experience. Thirdly, 
he laid strong stress on the fact that she was a 
little girl. From girls a higher standard was rea¬ 
sonably expected than from boys, who were far 
inferior creatures to their sisters. 

But this relegation of Roy to a lower plane of 
creation did not save him when next he ran away. 
His return was announced to the household by cries 
from a locked upper room, where papa was keeping 
mamma’s promise. Dolly Rosa sat on the stairs 
and lamented as loudly as mamma and the aunts. 
She was puzzled as well as pitiful; it seemed to her 
that papa was contradicting himself. But when she 
saw how much softer in manner, gentler in dispo¬ 
sition, more obedient, Roy was for some time after¬ 
wards, she admitted that there was reason in incon¬ 
sistency. 

A new order of things had begun. Mr. Manners, 
having asserted himself, assumed large control of 
his household. And the change was one that 
brought joy to Dolly Rosa. 

Only once did mamma endeavor to recover her 


278 THE AGNOSTICISM OF DOLLY ROSA 


lost supremacy. She protested in vain when her 
husband chose for Roy the Jesuit College of 
Saxonhurst. She chafed at the “bad reports” which 
stated that, though there was much good in him, 
stern discipline would be needed to make “any¬ 
thing of him.” “Anything of him,” indeed! As 
if any one but a mother could understand an only 
and delicately nurtured boy ! But when the Presi¬ 
dent wrote that he had been told to choose between 
expulsion and a birching, she revolted. She would 
not have her pet thus disgraced, but would go her¬ 
self to Saxonhurst and remove him. 

She went home with doubts as to whether she 
possessed the understanding which she had claimed 
for mothers. Though he had been birched that 
very morning, Roy cried to stay. 

She is proud of her son now; her father assures 
her that he is the finest young officer in his regi¬ 
ment. He succeeds in combining soldierly manli¬ 
ness with the practice of his religion. Though so 
young, he is looked up to, not for “side” and 
“bounce,” but for his unassuming disposition and 
sterling worth. The only occasion on which he 
looks really conceited is when he is walking out 
with his sister. 

Dolly Rosa—sweet, unselfish little soul!—ar- 


KARL KLAXTON 


279 


ranges the flowers in the church every Saturday, 
and then goes to confession. She always mentions 
as a sin of her past life that she once had “serious 
doubts against faith.” Her confessor smiles; some¬ 
times he wonders if his little penitent is scrupulous. 
But her placid, happy face reassures him. And he 
reflects that her admission has saved him from a 
dilemma. Without it, her confession would not 
have contained “sufficient matter” for absolution. 

She once confided to him her desire to be a nun, 
but he wisely bade her pray that she might learn 
God’s holy will. Her petition—she is as obedient 
and trustful as of yore—has been answered. She 
is now engaged to a chum of Boy’s and a class-fel¬ 
low of his own. Every day, he asks in his “Me¬ 
mento” at Mass that her future husband may be 
very, very good to her. 





“Just a Story” 


BY URSULA MARGARET TRAINOR 

“No, my dear,” said the placid, sweet-faced wo¬ 
man with the smiling eyes, “I was not always a 
Catholic, and until I was eighteen years old I had 
no desire to become one. I will tell you all about 
it, if you wish,” and in the general chorus of, “Oh, 
please do!” and a shifting and hitching of chairs, 
I also, although a stranger, took advantage of the 
noise and pulled my chair nearer so that I might 
hear the story, too. 

“From my earliest childhood,” the attractive 
little lady began, “I was passionately fond of 
music. I did not have any talent myself and could 
hardly play a note, but I could sit for hours and 
listen to another play. My parents professed no 
religion, but I would go to some church every Sun¬ 
day, just to hear the music, but would sit listless 
and dreaming during the sermon. 

“As chance would have it, until I was seventeen 
years old I had never been inside a Catholic church. 
As Christmas of that year drew near I was inex¬ 
pressibly depressed—a feeling that I could neither 


282 


“JUST A STORY” 


understand nor explain. Not even mingling with 
the gay throng of Christmas shoppers seemed to 
enliven me, and as Christmas day approached I 
felt a burning desire to do something, but what 
that something was I could not divine. 

“My mother insisted that I should take a tonic, 
and father threatened to take me to a physician, 
but my oldest brother, gazing, with penetrating 
eyes at me, said laughingly: 

“ ‘I believe Aileen has a bad conscience.’ 

“Then, at the wave of hot color that surged over 
my face, he said quickly, ‘Come, girlie, let us take 
a walk.’ 

“And although the snow was blowing wildly 
about, and the piercing north wind seemed to pene¬ 
trate one’s very body, we set out, arm in arm, and 
walked until dark. My brother seemed to under¬ 
stand just how I felt, and hardly a word was spoken 
during all the while we were out, but when we 
reached our own door again he paused on the lower 
step and said, ‘Do you feel better now, Aileen?’ 
and when I nodded and tried hard to gulp down the 
sob that rose in my throat he just kissed me and 
we went in. 

“But I felt better, somehow, and I slept most 
of that night, which was something I had not done 


URSULA MARGARET TRAINOR 


283 


for a long time. I had, however, a very queer 
dream. It seemed as though I stood on the brink 
of a great yawning abyss. My father and mother 
stood with me holding me, entreating me not to 
attempt to cross the frail bridge that spanned the 
chasm. 

“At last my father said: ‘It separates our lives, 
Aileen,’ and as I drew back frightened, a voice 
strangely familiar called out from the darkness on 
the other 3ide of the ravine: ‘Courage, Aileen V 

“With a hurried gesture I started across. As soon 
as I set my foot on the bridge, my parents faded 
from my view, and a great light appeared on the 
opposite bank. In the center of the flame I saw 
a Bleeding Heart, such as my brother had pointed 
out from the door of the cathedral the night before. 
Then I awoke and fell asleep to dream no more. 

“The next day was Christmas Eve and I felt no 
better. In fact, as evening came on, the longing 
approached almost to wildness. And when the other 
members of the family had retired, I still sat fully 
clothed before the blazing fire in my own room. 
How long I sat I do not know, but finally the air 
became stifling and I could not breathe. Slipping 
on my fur coat and hood I stole quietly out of the 
house and sped along the white streets. I was not 


284 


“JUST A STORY' 


afraid and I walked on and on. Suddenly with a 
start I realized that I was before a brilliantly 
lighted church, and without knowing why I went 
in. The candles on the altar gleamed faintly, as 
if far away, and a tall priest in sober black was 
moving noiselessly back and forth. I slid into 
the back pew, and in obedience to some instinct 
that prompted me, I slipped down on my knees. 
Then the great organ pealed forth, the strains 
rising and swelling as the piece proceeded. My 
head sank on the back of the pew in front of me 
and heavy sobs shook my body. Somehow every 
sob let out some of that awful longing that had 
been stifling me for days, and a great peace entered 
my soul. 

“When the solemn midnight Mass had begun I 
found myself praying fervently. What I said I don’t 
know, but God knew and understood. I knelt there 
spellbound and oh, so happy, for a long time. At 
the Elevation, when every one’s else head was rever¬ 
ently bowed, I gazed at the altar, for there, dear 
girls, I saw a vision. Yes, right there on the altar 
Our Lord appeared to me, standing tall and radi¬ 
ant above the tabernacle, and a voice I shall never 
forget said: ‘Suffer the little children to come unto 
Me/ With a long drawn-out sob I bowed my head 


URSULA MARGARET TRAIN OR 


285 


and wept for pure joy. I knew then what longing 
had been weighing me down. 

“So I knelt there until the gentleman next to me 
rose, and looking up I saw the devout going up to 
the communion rail. The man was waiting for me 
to let him by. As he passed me I glanced into his 
face. It was the face of my eldest brother, Will. 
But what a changed Will—his eyes were like mist 
and fire, and filled with heavenly peace. How I 
wished that I, too, might go with him, on that 
Christmas night, to the holy table of the Lord. 
When the Mass was over and only the organ softly 
sent up its hymn of praise, Will rose to leave. I 
laid my hand on his arm. He glanced down and 
for a moment looked unknowingly into my eyes. 

“With tears trembling on my eyelashes and run¬ 
ning down my cheeks I told him that my con¬ 
science was at rest and how happy I was. He ut¬ 
tered a fervent Thank God!’ and while we walked 
home through the snow he told me how he had 
studied the Catholic religion for a year, how he had 
been baptized the day before, and how he had re¬ 
ceived Our Lord for the first time that night. 
Then he said, ‘And, oh, how I wished that you 
would study, too, Aileen, and the last few days when 
you felt so queer I hoped that you were beginning 


286 


“JUST A STORY 1 


to doubt whether you were living the right kind 
of a life. So I took you out to walk, Aileen, and 
I took you to the cathedral, although I don’t think 
you noticed, I did it so slyly. Have you thought 
anything of the Bleeding Heart since, sister?’ 

“When I told him of my dream, he said: ‘It 
was a dream prompted by heaven, dear.’ 

“ ‘But, Will,’ I interrupted, ‘our father and 
mother—they will object?’ 

“ ‘I hardly think they will,’ he answered. ‘They 
told me to study, and even become a Catholic if I 
cared to and they would offer no resistance.’ 

“So, my dears,” the narrator concluded, “that is 
the end of my story. No, Mary, my parents did 
nothing to discourage me, and one year from that 
Christmas night I received the Holy Eucharist for 
the first time. And better still, before many years 
my dear father and mother also joined the Church. 
And now I am a happy, contented old woman and 
I have so much to be thankful for—but I am al¬ 
most preaching!” and with that the merry company 
laughingly disbanded and the pleasant-faced lady 
passed inside. 


PRINTED BY BENZ1GER BROTHERS, NEW YORK 


Benziger Brothers* New Plan for Disseminating Catholic Literature 

A NEW PLAN FOR SECURING 

Catholic Books on Easy Payments 

Small Monthly Payments. Books Delivered Immediately. All 
New Copyright Works by the Foremost Writers 
Printed from New Plates, on Good Paper, Substantially Bound in Cloth 

A MOST LIBERAL OFFER! 

The following pages contain a list of the books in our Cath¬ 
olic Circulating Library which can be had from us on the easy- 
payment plan. 

Though the books are sold on easy payments, the prices are 
lower than the regular advertised prices. 

Any library advertised in these pages will be sent to you 
immediately on receipt of $1.00. 


CATHOLIC CIRCULATING LIBRARY 

The Plan forForming Reading Circles 

Dues only 10 Cents a Month. 

A New Book Every Month) Total Cost for 
|i 2 Worth of Books toRead) a Year, $1.20 
THIS EXPLAINS THE PLAN 

You form a Reading Club, say of 
twelve members, and order one of the 
Libraries from us. 

Each member pays you ten cents a 
month, and you remit us $1.00 a month, 
thus paying us for the books. 

On receipt of the first dollar we 
will send you a complete library. 

You give each member a book. After 
a month all the members return their 
books to you and you give them another one. The books are 
exchanged in this way every month till the members have read 
the twelve volumes in the Library. After the twelfth month 
the books may be divided among the members (each getting one 
book to keep) or the books may be given to your Pastor for a 
parish library. 

Then you can order from us a second Library on the same 
terms as above. In this way you can keep up your Reading 
Circle from year to year at a trifling cost. 

On the following pages will be found a list of the books in 
the different Libraries. They are the best that can be had. 

Mail a dollar bill to-day and any Library will be forwarded 
at once. 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

New York: Cincinnati: Chicago: 

36-38 Barclay St. 343 Main St. 211-213 Madison St. 


THE OTHER 
PLAN 

Or if, instead of form- 
ing a Reading Circle, 
you wish to get a 
Library for yourself 
or your family, all 
you need do is to re. 
mit a dollar bill and 
any Library will be 
forwarded to you at 
once. Then you pay 
One Dollar a month. 


1 




CATHOLIC CIRCULATING LIBRARY 

Dues, 10 cents a Month 2 New Books Every Month 

JUVENILE BOOKS 

20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young, by the Best Authors 
Special Net Price, $10.00 
You get the books at once, and have the use of them, while 

making easy payments. Read explanation on first page. 

JUVENILE LIBRARY A 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A START. By Rev. F. J. 
Finn, S.J. “Best boy’s book that ever came from the press.” 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. “This is a story full of go and adventure.” 

HARRY RUSSELL, A ROCKLAND COLLEGE BOY. By 
Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “Father Copus takes the college 
hero where Father Finn has left him, through the years 
to graduation.” 

CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
Father Bearne shows a wonderful knowledge and fine ap¬ 
preciation of boy character. 

NAN NOBODY. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Keeps one fas¬ 
cinated till the last page is reached.” 

LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. By Marion A. 
Taggart. “Will help keep awake the strain of hero worship.” 

THE GOLDEN LILY. By Katharine T. Hinkson. “Another 
proof of the author’s wonderful genius.” 

THE MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A 
bright, sparkling book.” 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. By Sara T. Smith. “A 
delightful story of Southern school life.” 

THE MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. By Marion J. 
Brunowe. “Plenty of fun, with high moral principle.” 

BUNT AND BILL. By Clara Mulholland. “There are 
passages of true pathos and humor in this pretty tale.” 

THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. By Maurice F. Egan. 
“They are by no means faultless young people and their 
hearts lie in the right places.” 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. By Ella L. Dorsey. “This story 
is clever and witty—there is not a dull page.” 

A HOSTAGE OF WAR. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “A wide¬ 
awake story, brimful of incident and easy humor.” 

AN EVERY DAY GIRL. By Mary T. Crowley. “One of the 
few tales that will appeal to the heart of every girl.” 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. By Mary E. Mannix. “This book will 
make a name for itself.” 

AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S. M. O’Malley. “The book is 
destined to become a true friend of our boys.” 

THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
Sure to stir the blood of every real boy and to delight with 
its finer touches the heart of every true girl. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By Lillian Mack. A real child’s tale. 

RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
“His sympathy with boyhood is so evident and his under¬ 
standing so perfect.” 


2 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special Net F’rice, $10.00 
$1.00 down, $i.oo a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page 

JUVENILE LIBRARY B 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. Bv Rev. F. J. 
Finn, S.J. Profusely illustrated. “A delightful story by 
Father Finn, which will be popular with the girls as well 
as with the boys.” 

THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. 
Spalding, S.J. “From the outset the reader’s attention is 
captivated and never lags.” 

SAINT CUTHBERT’S. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “A truly 
inspiring tale, full of excitement.” 

THE TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsev. “Polly 
with her cool head, her pure heart and stern Western sense 
of justice.” 

STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By Mary T. Waggaman. 
“Takes hold of the interest and of the heart and never 
lets go.” 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. May. “Courage, 
truth, honest dealing with friend and foe." 

A KLONDIKE PICNIC. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. “Alive 
with the charm that belongs to childhood.” 

A COLLEGE BOY. By Anthony Yorke. “Healthy, full of 
life, full of incident.” 

THE GREAT CAPTAIN. By Katharine T. Hinkson. 
“Makes the most interesting and delightful reading.” 

THE YOUNG COLOR GUARD. By Mary G. Bonesteel. 
“The attractiveness of the tale is enhanced by the realness 
that pervades it.” 

THE HALDEMAN CHILDREN. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full 
of people entertaining, refined, and witty.” 

PAULINE ARCHER. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sure to cap¬ 
tivate the hearts of all juvenile readers.” 

THE ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By W. Herchenbach. 
“Cannot fail to inspire honest ambition.” 

THE INUNDATION. By Canon Schmid. “Sure to please 
the young readers for whom it is intended.” 

THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion A. Tag¬ 
gart. “Pleasing and captivating to young people.” 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. By Clara Mulholland. “Vivacious 
and natural and cannot fail to be a favorite.” 

BISTOURI. By A. Melandri. “How Bistouri traces out the 
plotters and foils them makes interesting reading.” 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara T. Smith. “The 
heroine wins her way into the heart of every one.” 

THE SEA-GULL’S ROCK. By J. Sandeau. “The intrepidity 
of the little hero will appeal to every boy.” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. A collection of 
twenty stories by the foremost writers, with illustrations. 


3 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special Net Price, $10.00 
$1.00 down, $i.oo a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

JUVENILE LIBRARY C 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By Rev. 
F. J. Finn, S.J. “The most successful Catholic juvenile 
published.” 

THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By Rev. H. S. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. “Father Spalding’s descriptions equal those of 
Cooper.” 

SHADOWS LIFTED. By Rev. J. E.. Copus, S.J. “We know 
of no books more delightful and interesting. ’ 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY, AND OTHER 
STORIES. By Maurice F. Egan. “A choice collection of 
stories by one of the most popular writers.” 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By C. May. “Chap¬ 
ters of breathless interest.” 

MILLY AVELING. By Sara Trainer Smith. “The best 
story Sara Trainer Smith has ever written.’* 

THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By Mary T. Wagga- 
man. “An excellent girl’s story.” 

THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. “How 
the plotters are captured and the boy rescued makes a very 
interesting story.” 

AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel 

F ERRY 

PANCHO'AND PANCHITA. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of 
color and warmth of life in old Mexico.” 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. By Mary G. Bonesteel. 
“Many a boyish heart will beat in envious admiration of 
little Tommy.” 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By Marion A. Taggart. “A 
creditable book in every way.” 

THE QUEEN’S PAGE. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
“Will arouse the young to interest in historical matters 
and is a good story well told.” 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
“Sprightly, interesting and well written.” 

BOB-O’LINK. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Every boy and girl 
will be delighted with Bob-o’Link.” 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By Marion A. 
Taggart. “There is an exquisite charm in the telling.” 

WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By W. Herchenbach. “A simple 
tale, entertainingly told.” 

THE CANARY BIRD. By Canon Schmid. “The story is a 
fine one and will be enjoyed by boys and girls.” 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The children who 
are blessed with such stories have much to be thankful for ” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. A collection 
of twenty stories by the foremost writers, illustrated. 


4 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special Net Price, $10.00 
$ 1.00 down, $i.oo a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

JUVENILE LIBRARY D 

THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
“Here is a story for boys that bids fair to equal any of 
Fath^f Finn , Q ” 

THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By George Barton. There 
is a peculiar charm about this novel that the discriminating 
reader will ascribe to the author’s own personality. 

HARMONY FLATS. By C. S. Whitmore. The characters 
are all drawn true to life, and the incidents are exciting. 

WAYWARD WINIFRED. By Anna T. Sadlier. A story for 
girls. Its youthful readers will enjoy the vivid description, 
lively conversation, and the many striking incidents. 

TOM LOSELY: BOY. By Rev. T. E. Copus, S.J. Illustrated. 
The writer knows boys and boy nature, and small-boy 
nature too. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The 
children who are blessed with such stories have much to be 
thankful for.” 

JACK O’LANTERN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This book is 
alive with interest. It is full of life and incident. 

THE BERKLEYS. By Emma Howard Wight. A truly in¬ 
spiring tale, full of excitement. There is not a dull page. 

LITTLE MISSY. By Mary T. Waggaman. A charming story 
for children which will be enjoyed by older folks as well. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. By Mary T. Waggaman. Full of fun 
and charming incidents—a book that every boy should read. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. By Mary E. Mannix. One of the 
most thoroughly unique and charming books that has found 
its way to the reviewing desk in many a day. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By Katharine T. Hinkson. This 
book is more than a story, and it is well written. 

THE DOLLAR HUNT. From the French by E. G. Martin. 
Those who wish to get a fascinating tale should read this. 

THE VIOLIN MAKER. From the original of Otto v. Schach- 
ing, by Sara Trainer Smith. There is much truth in this 
simple little story. 

“JACK.” By S. H. C. J. As loving and lovable a little fellow 
as there is in the world is “Jack.” 

A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. This 
is a beautiful book, in full sympathy with and delicately 
expressive of the author’s creations. 

DADDY DAN. By Mary T. Waggaman. A fine boys’ story. 

THE BELL FOUNDRY. By Otto v. Schaching. So interest¬ 
ing that the reader will find it hard to tear himself away. 

TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. An exciting story of 
the varied fortunes of an orphan boy from abject poverty 
in a dismal cellar to success. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE, Third Series, A collection of 
twenty stories by the foremost writers. 

5 


CATHOLIC CIRCULATING LIBRARY 

Dues, 10 Cents a Month A New Book Every Month 

NOVELS 

12 Copyrighted. Novels by the Best Authors 
Special Brice, $12.00 

You get the books at once, and have the use of them while 
making easy payments 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. I 

THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By Grace Keon. “Will 
charm any reader.” 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. Harrison. “A 
real, true life history, the kind one could live through and 
never read it for romance. . . .” 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. By Marion A. Taggart. 
Illustrated. “A tale of the time of Henry V. of England, 
full of adventure and excitement.” 

HEARTS OF GOLD. By I. Edhor. “It is a tale that will 
leave its reader the better for knowing its heroine, her 
tenderness and her heart of gold.” 

THE HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. By Countess Hahn- 
Hahn. “An exquisite story of life and love, told in touch¬ 
ingly simple words.” 

THE PILKINGTON HEIR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Skill and 
strength are shown in this story. The plot is well con¬ 
structed and the characters vividly differentiated.” 

THE OTHER MISS LISLE. A Catholic novel of South 
African life. By M. C. Martin. A powerful story by a 
writer of distinct ability. 

IDOLS; OR. THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D’AN- 
TlN. By Raoul de Navery. “The story is a remarkablv 
clever one; it is well constructed and evinces a master hand/’ 

THE SOGGARTH AROON. By Rev. Joseph Guinan, C.C. 
A capital Irish story. 

THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. By Maurice F. 
Egan. _ “This is a novel of modern American life. The 
scene is laid in a pleasant colony of cultivated people on 
the banks of the Hudson, not far from West Point.” 

A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. By Christian Reid. “That great 
American Catholic novel for which so much inquiry is made, 
a story true in its picture of Americans at home and abroad.” 

PASSING SHADOWS. By Anthony Yorke. “A thoroughly 
charming story. . It sparkles from first to last with interest¬ 
ing situations and dialogues that are full of sentiment. 
There is not a slow page.” 


6 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

Special Net Price, $12.00 

$1.00 down, $i.oo a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 


LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. II 

THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT’S WAGER, and Other Stories. 
30 stories by 30 of the foremost Catholic writers. 

A DAUGHTER OF KINGS. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
“The book is most enjoyable.” 

THE WAY THAT LED BEYOND. By J. Harrison. “The 
story does not drag, the plot is well worked out, and the 
interest endures to the very last page.” 

CORINNE’S VOW. By Mary T. Waggaman. With 16 full- 
page illustrations. “There is genuine artistic merit in its 
plot and life-story. It is full of vitality and action.” 

THE FATAL BEACON. By F. v. Brackel. “The story is 
told well and clearly, ana has a certain charm that will be 
found interesting. The principle characters are simple, 
good-hearted people, and the heroine’s high sense of courage 
impresses itself upon the reader as the tale proceeds.” 

THE MONK’S PARDON: An Historical Romance of the Time 
of Philip IV. of Spain. By Raoul de Navery. “A story 
full of stirring incidents and written in a lively, attrac¬ 
tive style.” 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. By Walter Lecky. “The char¬ 
acters are life-like and there is a pathos in the checkered 
life of the heroine. Pere Monnier is a memory that will 
linger.” 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
“One of the most thoroughly original and delightful ro¬ 
mances ever evolved from the pen of a Catholic writer.” 

THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By Marion A. Tag¬ 
gart. With four full-page illustrations. “This story tells of 
the adventures of a young American girl, who, in order to 
get possession of a fortune left her by an uncle whom she 
had never seen, goes to France.” 

THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. By Henry M. Ross. “A well- 
told story of American life, the scene laid in Boston, New 
York and California. It is very interesting.” 

FABIOLA’S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal 
Wiseman’s “Fabiola.”) Adapted by A. C. Clarke. “A book 
to read—a worthy sequel to that masterpiece, ‘Fabiola. 

THE OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE: A Novel. By A ;> de La- 
mothe. “A capital novel with plenty of go in it.” 


7 



12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

Special Net Price, $12.00 

$1.00 down, $i.oo a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. Ill 

“NOT A JUDGMENT.” By Grace Keon. “Beyond doubt the 
best Catholic novel of the year.” 

THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A 
story of stirring times in France, when the sturdy Vendeans 
rose in defence of country and religion.” 

HER FATHER’S DiVUGHTER. By Katharine Tynan Hink- 
Son. “So dramatic and so intensely interesting that the 
reader will find it difficult to tear himself away from the 
story.” 

OUT OF BONDAGE. By M. Holt. “Once his book becomes 
known it will be read by a great many.” 

MARCELLA GRACE. By Rosa Metlholland. Mr. Gladstone 
called this novel a masterpiece. 

THE CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. By F. v. Brackel. 
This work has achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic 
novel, for in less than a year three editions were printed. 

CARROLL DARE. By Mary T. Waggaman. Illustrated. “A 
thrilling story, with the dash of horses and the clash of 
swords on every side.” 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. By Miles Keon. “Dion is as 
brilliantly, as accurately and as elegantly classical, as 
scholarly in style and diction, as fascinating in plot and as 
vivid in action as Ben Hur.” 

HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. Ross. A clever story with 
an interesting and well-managed plot and many striking 
situations. 

MISS ERIN. By M. E. Francis. “A captivating tale of Irish 
life, redolent of genuine Celtic wit, love and pathos.” 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By Walter Lecky. “The figures 
who move in rugged grandeur through these pages are as 
fresh and unspoiled in their way as the good folk of 
Drumtochty.” 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. By Mrs. W. M. Bert- 
holds. “A story of which the spirit is so fine and the 
Catholic characters so nobly conceived.” 


S 


Continuation Library 


YOU SUBSCRIBE FOR FOUR NEW 
NOVELS A YEAR, TO BE MAILED 
TO YOU AS PUBLISHED, AND 
RECEIVE BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 
-FREE.- 

Each year we publish four new novels by the 
best Catholic authors. These novels are interest¬ 
ing beyond the ordinary—not religious, but Cath¬ 
olic in tone and feeling. They are issued in the 
best modern style. 

We ask you to give us a standing order for 
these novels. The price is $ 1 . 25 , which will be 
charged as each volume is issued, and the volume 
sent postage paid. 

As a special inducement for giving us a stand¬ 
ing order for the novels, we shall include free a 
subscription to Benziger’s Magazine. Benziger’s 
Magazine is recognized as the best and hand¬ 
somest Catholic periodical published, and we are 
sure will be welcomed in every library. The 
regular price of the Magazine is $ 2.00 a year. 

Thus for $ 5.00 a year—paid $ 1.25 at a time 
—you will get four good books and receive in 
addition a year’s subscription to Benziger’s 
Magazine. The Magazine will be continued 
from year to year, as long as the standing order 
for the novels is in force, which will be till 
countermanded. 






THE FAMOUS 

ROUND TABLE SERIES 

■4 VOLUMES, $6.00 
60 Cents Down; 60 Cents a. Month 
On payment of 50 cents you get the books and a free sub¬ 
scription to Benziger’s Magazine 
The Greatest Stories by the Foremost Catholic Writers in the World 
With Portraits of the Authors, Sketches of their Lives, and 
a List of their Works. Four exquisite volumes, containing the 
masterpieces of 36 of the foremost writers of America, Eng¬ 
land, Ireland, Germany, and France. Each story complete. 
Open any volume at random and you will find a great story to 
entertain you. 

ESPECIAL OFFERU 
In order to place this fine collection of stories in every 
home, we make the following special offer: Send us 50 cents 
and the four fine volumes will be sent to you immediately. 
Then you pay 50 cents each month until $6.00 has been paid. 


LIBRARY OF SHORT STORIES 


BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS 
ORIGINAL STORIES BY 33 WRITERS 
Four handsome volumes and Benziger’s Magazine for a year 
at the Special Price of $5.00 
60 Cents Down; 60 Cents a Nlontlrx 
You get the books at once, and have the use of them while 
making easy payments. Send us only 50 cents, and we will 
forward the books at once; 50 cents entitles you to immediate 
possession. No further payment need be made for a month; 
afterwards you pay 60 cents a month. 


Anna T. Sadlier 
Mary E. Mannix 
Mary T. Waggaman 
Jerome Harte 
Mary G. Bonesteel 
Magdalen Rock 
Eugenie Uhlrich 
Alice Richardson 
Katharine Jenkins 
Mary Boyle O’Reilly 
Clara Mulholland 
Grace Keon 
Louisa Emily Dobree 
Theo. Gift 
Margaret E. Jordan 
Agnes M. Rowe 
Julia C. Walsh 


STORIES BY 

Madge Mannix 
Leigh Gordon Giltner 
Eleanor C. Donnelly 
Teresa Stanton 
H. J. Carroll 

Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J. 
Marion Ames Taggart 
Maurice Francis Egan 
Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 
Mrs. Francis Chadwick 
Catherine L. Meagher 
Anna Blanche McGill 
Mary Catherine Crowley 
Katharine Tynan Hinkson 
Sallie Margaret O’Malley 
Emma Howard Wight 


10 



900 pages 500 Illustrations 

A. GREAT OFFER! 

THE LIFE OF OUR LORD 

-AND - 

SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST 

And of His Virgin Mother Mary 

FROM THE ORIGINAL OF 

L. C. B U S I N G E R, LL.D. 

BY 

Rev. RICHARD BRENNAN, LL.D. 


Quarto, half morocco, full gilt side, gilt edges, 
900 pages, 500 illustrations in the text 
and 32 full-page illustrations by 

M. FEUERSTEIN 

PRICE.NET $ 10.00 

Easy Payment Plan, 

$1.00 DOWN, $1.00 A MONTH 

Mail $ 1.00 to-day and the book will be shipped 
to you immediately. Then you pay $ 1.00 
a month till $ 10.00 is paid. 

This is not only a Life of Christ and of His 
Blessed Mother, but also a carefully condensed 
history of God’s Church from Adam to the end 
of the world in type, prophecy, and fulfilment, it 
contains a popular dogmatic theology and. a real 
catechism of perseverance, filled with spiritual 
food for the soul. 


11 







The Best Stories and Articles. Over 1000 Illustrations a Year. 

BENZIGER'S MAGAZINE 

The Popular Catholic Family Monthly 

Recommended by 70 Archbishops and Bishops of the 
United States 

SUBSCRIPTION, $2.00 A YEAR 


What Benziger’s Magazine gives its Readers: 

Fifty complete stories by the best writers—equal to a book of 
300 pages selling at $1.25. 

Three complete novels of absorbing interest—equal to three 
books selling at $1.25 each. 

Over 1000 beautiful illustrations. 

Twenty-five large reproductions of celebrated paintings. 

Twenty articles—equal to a book of 150 pages—on travel and 
adventure; on the manners, customs and home-life of 
peoples; on the haunts and habits of animal life, etc. 

Twenty articles—equal to a book of 150 pages—on our country: 
historic events, times, places, important industries. 

Twenty articles—equal to a book of 150 pages—on the fine arts: 
celebrated artists and their paintings, sculpture, music, etc., 
and nature studies. 

Twelve pages of games and amusements for in and out of doors. 

Fifty pages of fashions, fads and fancies, gathered at home 
and abroad, helpful hints for home workers, household 
column, cooking receipts, etc. 

“Current Events,” the important happenings over the whole 
world, described with pen and pictures. 

Twelve prize competitions, in which valuable prizes are offered. 

This is what is given in a single year of 
Benziger’s Magazine. 

Send $2.00 now and become a subscriber to the best and hand¬ 
somest Catholic Magazine published. 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

New York: Cincinnati: Chicago: 

36-38 Barclay St. 343 Main St. 211-213 Madison St. 


















h? R38 ‘>909 




Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Jan. 2010 




PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 







i 







